


Amor Victorious

by HappyPrincess



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (by popular opinion), Alpha Harry Styles, Alpha Louis Tomlinson, Angst, Art History, Bedbugs, Denial of Feelings, Desperate Harry, Desperate Louis, Feminine Harry, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Harry, Harry in Lingerie, Internalized Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-binary character, Oral Knotting, Politics, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Discovery, Sexism, Slow Burn, Snap Back Harry, Travel, alternative universe, at two points they think they might die but it's Funny, because MULTITUDES, gayBO, interrailing, mention: Harry Styles/other, not actually but the whole a/a thing is a metaphore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyPrincess/pseuds/HappyPrincess
Summary: Louis finds himself following Harry on a journey through Italy, complete with long train rides, greasy food, naked Christs, and too many lingering touches. They're definitely not like other tourists and he definitely doesn't have a crush on his best friend who happens to be an alpha, too.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 299





	Amor Victorious

**Author's Note:**

> Alright!! I've been talking about this for months and here it finally is! And it wouldn't exist without the lil bitty writer gc, all the lovely support on tumblr (especially Jen and Mar, like DAMN ily), Finn, and most importantly FELIX louhearted.tumblr.com the best beta in the WORLD. 
> 
> **Harry uses both he/him and they/them.**
> 
> The title is stolen from one of Caravaggio's works because he would've nutted if he had gotton the chance to paint Harry.

-*-

The decision is made in one night, the tickets booked the next morning. He had been hesitant, for the time in between one glass of wine and the next, the time it took Harry to shuffle closer and beg not only with their words but their pout, their smell. There, on the sofa of a flat he has been calling home for five years now, he wondered what would change if he’d refuse them something for the first time. Well. Refuse something he could actually give them. Of course, his mind had been dizzy with alcohol and the scent of them, the scent of his best friend, another alpha, so it hadn’t taken much convincing. Harry had claimed it was because they regret not taking a semester abroad, because they’ve always wanted to go to Italy, but Louis suspects it’s because of the breakup.

A breakup that Harry calls a drift and no big deal, but that’s what they said about the last one and, in Louis’ opinion, there’s not much time for drifting if the relationship itself only lasts about three months. It’s probably a journey to find themselves, a trip to escape the restless routine of their life, a month of introspection. He doesn’t think too much about why they would want him along for the ride.

The tickets take three days to arrive, but as soon as Louis sees them in his letterbox, he calls Harry and they’re off. Not telling a single soul where they are going until their plane is well above the ocean. Harry doesn’t stop lamenting about carbon dioxide emissions and the dying earth, and promises to stop using plastic bottles as atonement.

Struggling to find their way out the airport and queasy from the turbulences and lack of lunch, they decide to buy overpriced sandwiches that taste nothing like Sicily’s cuisine is supposed to taste like. The bus ride into the actual city takes ages, along the coastline and a huge mountain that kind of looks like a dragon and makes Louis feel impossibly small and insignificant. He hasn’t seen mountains this tall in years.

It’s only when they’re alone in the room, which is barely lit by a tiny window high up on the wall, standing by the two low beds covered in lavender sheets that they really look at each other. And promptly start laughing. There’s a strange stain on the cold floor, at least two mosquitos whirring about and the stench of cheap detergent in the air, but Harry’s clutching their chest and tripping over their huge backpack and it makes Louis’ throat constrict, breath stuck as he plops onto one of the beds, giggling while he thinks: _yes, yes this is where I’m meant to be right now._

-*-

“That’s a pretty fucking dire explanation for a fountain,” he says and stares at the pool of poisonous liquid. It’s bubbling like a jacuzzi, leaves and twigs and bugs flailing in the current.

Harry hums and continues to read aloud the text in his art guide, speaking slow and steady. Apparently, the fountain contains organisms that were among the first to produce photosynthesis using chlorophyll. Somehow that makes it a comment on industrialisation. Louis kind of wants to know what happens if he’d pour his bottle of lemonade into the green water. He doesn’t because he knows Harry would freak out and because there’s a couple of old Italian men on a bench nearby, watching them with tired eyes. Of course, Harry’s bright pink romper could be a reason for that, too.

“I think it’s the best piece so far,” Harry asserts, shoving the book into their tote bag and taking out their camera, raising it up to their eyes. “It has depth.”

Louis is ready to argue, state that the best piece very obviously is the video of the four dudes having sex with ferns, and then he sees the smirk tugging at the corners of their mouth. “Depth,” he says.

“Yeah. Very-” A swooping gesture, flicking their hand. “Deep.”

“Like the water.”

“Yep.” The P is popped, because of course it is. Harry might be a pretentious idiot about art most of the time, but they also know how much Louis loves mocking them, offering opportunities like the great friend they are.

Louis pounces. He steps closer, pretends to inspect the fountain, stepping around the shadow Harry’s figure throws onto the soil. “So, let me guess. The material reflects the meaning.”

Now it’s Harry who grins and repeats. “Reflects. Like the-”

He groans before they can finish, and walks away because they might be his best friend but sometimes he forgets they are as dumb as he is. The path among the trees is soft, padded with wood chips and the fallen leaves of hundreds of different plants. Palermo hosted the _Manifesta_ last year, some sort of annual art festival if he remembers correctly, and the botanical garden still exhibits most of the works. There’s a labyrinth of pumpkins growing on cages, a bunch of charcoal drawings he had ignored and Harry had gotten really excited about, and a video of four dudes being bros and fucking plants. Literally. And it’s apparently not porn because it’s too sensual or too honouring or too consensual. He doesn’t understand how vegetation can consent to a man rubbing his dick into its petals, but he also knows all artists are completely full of themselves, so.

Harry catches up with him and loops an arm around his elbow. “Remember the classical building by the entrance? There’s an herbarium inside.”

Louis snorts, adjusts the position of his arm and pats Harry’s with his other hand. “Herbarium? As in herbs? Love, why would you want to-”

“It’s cool! We might see some extinct plants! And, you know. They supposedly exhibit the longest type of pumpkin.”

“Ah, so it’s about the dick shaped things in life.”

Harry doesn’t need to answer for Louis to know that’s exactly why they want to look at dried vegetables. And dick shaped they are: Twenty minutes later, when they’ve found their way through the garden, back to the entrance area and into the herbarium, and look into the vitrines displaying shrivelled and scraggy objects that might as well be giant, mummified cocks, they come to the same conclusion. “Why weren’t those in that video. They should’ve... planted the seed.”

They continue to make dick jokes and plant puns until they’re seated by a plastic table in front of a tuck shop. They eat arancini and chips, cheese greasy on the tips of their fingers, rice sticking between their teeth and the bitter burn of aluminium on their tongues. Afterwards, Harry makes Louis raise his phone so they can re-apply sun blocker on the bridge of their nose. Louis insists he doesn’t need any and endures the fussing later that day when they’re back at the hostel. He’s good as can be, sitting up straight on the edge of his bed and closing his eyes while Harry dabs aloe vera all over his face. When their fingers leave his forehead, body emitting heat, he takes a deep breath and blinks up.

Harry’s lips are curved upwards, but it’s not a smile, not really. Their lids are heavy from exhaustion, the bags under their eyes glossy in the moonlight. The small window allows a beam into the room, a blue square on the dark curls of Harry’s hair. It makes their skin look pale in comparison. Like this, Louis is at level with their chest, the top they changed into hanging low on their pectorals, revealing the swell of them, necklace glinting. They smell like they’ve always smelled, and it makes Louis’ body ache, something akin to tension in his muscles.

Louis shuffles up the bed and under the duvet, pulls it up to his shoulders even though it’s hot and steamy in the room. “Should go to sleep, you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Harry drawls, still standing by the bed, tapping the bottle of aloe on the exposed part of their thigh. Their briefs ride up high, as much skin visible as it gets without taking them off or putting on knickers. Louis knows they brought some with them, at least two panties fell out when they got their toiletries to go shower. “You should put on sunscreen tomorrow; you look like a lobster.”

Louis scowls at them, knows his own scent is thickening with irritation. Harry smacks their lips, shrugs and crawls into the other bed, reaching for the tote bag on the floor. They take out the camera and a small, portable printer. It rattles and beeps as it spits out the pictures of the fountain, of the pumpkins and flowers, of the view from the plane, and a last one that might be Louis beneath a canopy of trees. He can’t really identify the details. Harry’s got their journal in their lap and is writing whatever an art historian writes about ecosexuality or greasy arancini or sunburns, squinting at the pages.

“Turn on a lamp, Love,” Louis says, rolling onto his side and watching them. “Or you won’t get away with not wearing your glasses.”

“Don’t wanna keep you awake.”

“Michael used to sleep with the lights on, I don’t care.”

“Right.” Harry licks their lips again. They stretch their body across the space between the beds and tug on the chain of the lamp that’s suspended beneath the window, a single bulb with a buzz louder than the mosquitoes flying near Louis’ ear. The light is harsh and cool, like the ones in public bathrooms. Louis suppresses his groan with a turn into the pillow, immediately cursing their low budget when he has to inhale the citrus detergent in the sheets. That’s what they get for working on useless degrees in fields that come in handy with nothing but poisonous fountains and arguments about the structures of oppression. He should’ve listened to his father. Or maybe not, seeing as his hissed words are the ones booming in his head after he looks back at Harry and feels a surge of want.

“Do you still think of him?”

“Who?”

Harry rips off a piece of washi tape, a pattern of sunflowers on it, and tapes one of the pictures to the page. “Michael.”

“Do you still think of Lenny?” He says it calmly and muffled by the pillow, but Harry throws him a glance, brows twitching.

“Not really. I mean, he came around the other day and got the things he left at mine. Uhm, like the jumper and the magazines. Don’t know why he wanted those, he never really liked Haring... always talked about the lack of dimension.”

“Right,” Louis says and thinks about Lenny, the omega Harry had met in one of their art classes and started dating after they had gone to a performance on death and chaos. Or death in chaos. Or chaos in death, maybe. Louis doesn’t remember. Just like he doesn’t remember the colour of Lenny’s hair or the pitch of his voice, only remembers how perfectly he fit into Harry’s side. “Isn’t that kind of Haring’s thing, the, like, flatness? Because it’s supposed to be graffiti, like, fast, right? You talked about tube stations and pop-up shops.”

Harry smiles, a dimple in their cheek. “Yeah.”

“Fuck Lenny, then.”

“No, it’s not his fault.”

Louis closes his eyes, can’t stand the sight of Harry’s face as they defend their ex. “I don’t think he... saw you. Understood you.”

There’s only the scratch of Harry’s pen for a minute; the huffs of their breathing; the noise of a city that comes alive at night, people yelling and laughing, whooping along to music, shouting at screeching cars. If it wasn’t so much louder, so much more laced with the heat of another country, it’d feel exactly like the two years they spent as flatmates. Back then, before they went to different universities and realising living together strained their friendship, they used to cuddle up and look out of the window, watching neighbours, speaking confessions in the crowded space of their kitchen.

“No, he didn’t,” Harry whispers finally. It takes another couple of seconds for them to continue. “But it wasn’t his fault, it really wasn’t. I’ve got – I am–… I don’t think he got the gender thing. And other stuff.”

Louis’ stomach contracts in a sour pinch. “ _Fuck_ Lenny. I’m glad you got rid of him.”

“You are?”

Louis doesn’t open his eyes, no matter how badly he wants to see the expression that goes along with the breathiness in Harry’s voice. He pulls up one knee and snuggles further into the mattress, makes the pace of his words deliberately slow and sleepy. “Course. You’re happier without him. Seen less of that frown of yours, lately.”

“That’s because you make me laugh all the time,” Harry says, easily, as if it wouldn’t send Louis into a stupor. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

“Came up with the idea, didn’t I,” Louis mumbles weakly and prays the intensity of the scents in the room is because the breeze stopped flowing in through the window and there’s simply less circulation in the air.

“Not really. I said I wanted to get away, uhm, and you. You just kinda said, and I’m quoting you because I have it written right here, you said: Okay, fuck it, let’s conquer the world.”

Louis doesn’t reply. There’s nothing he can say to gloss it over, to hide the tremble in his limbs.

“You also said you’d pay for the whole thing, which. You haven’t pulled through. Nasty.”

He has the urge to throw it back, to call Harry out on all the naughty things they did today, make them giggle and squirm, but he knows if he starts doing so, he won’t be able to stop until they’re breathless, flushed, staring at him with wide eyes. And he’s already shaky enough, doesn’t need to add the pleased shine of their lips to the images that are drowning his mind, surely about to flood his dreams.

“Obviously, that’s when you get quiet,” Harry teases, but there’s the sound of their journal snapping shut; a shuffle, a click, then the light disappears, and the buzzing of the bulb subsides. It only makes space for the mosquitos to gear up and drive them insane. Louis is awake much longer than he lets on, keeping his body still even when several spots on his exposed shoulder and arm start itching, even when the duvets gets too heavy, even when Harry wishes him a good night.

-*-

He wakes up fucking the mattress and is mortified for the rest of the morning. He’s used to being horny around his friends, that comes with smelling every little shift in their pheromones and generally being uncomfortably aware of anything sexual when it comes to other alphas, but this is worse than popping a stiffy when they’re exchanging stories about omegas and sex toys. This is him choking on a groan when his eyes fly open and he’s greeted with the angelic expression on Harry’s face, mouth parted, snoring quietly.

Louis is up as fast as possible, opening the window to make sure the dense scent of his arousal is aired out before he sneaks off into the showers. It’s a shared space, tiles mouldy, curtains barely hiding him, and at least two other alphas in the room. Needless to say, he doesn’t touch his hard cock, but douses himself in cold water until he’s shivering. He’s back to normal when he’s dressed and waking Harry for breakfast, relieved he can only smell the fragrance of his shampoo and the coffee that’s waiting in the dining room. Harry flops over, curls matted, lips puffy, and unfastens the clip of the bracelet around his wrist. The little pendant with the words _they/them_ clatters as he puts it on the floor, next to his journal. He’s been wearing it for years now, the years of use have stained the plastic and frayed the yarn. “Could’ve just let me sleep ‘nd have breakfast outside.”

“I’m paying for the shitty cheese and the flaky cornflakes, Harry. Get up.”

Harry hisses at him. It makes Louis laugh so hard he bangs an ankle on the foot of the bed. “Aw, does the angry pup not want to get up and have his brekkie?”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry says and puts his arms over his face, sighing loudly.

“What, are you implying you’re not a baby? A teeny, tiny baby that wants to stay snuggled -”

“You know why,” and now there’s a dark timbre in his voice. Not enough to make the hairs at the back of Louis’ neck stand up or for his teeth to ache or for his instincts to fight back, but enough for the reprimands of a teacher to echo in his head. _Alphas assort their dominance_. And, unlike yesterday when he was afraid the night would give him away, he doesn’t let the opportunity slip away. Afterall, he shouldn’t be the only one who has to deal with uncomfortable arousal in the morning.

Louis puts one knee on the mattress and yanks on Harry’s wrists, cooing. “Aw, you really _are_ a baby. A little disgruntled pup.”

The shift in scent is palpable, heavy on his tongue. But he doesn’t stop. Pries open Harry’s arms until he can look him in the eyes, knowing he’s only able to do so because Harry’s holding back strength. He sees the hope in his gaze, and his breath leaves him in a rush, a pounding heartbeat filling his ears. Whose, he’s not sure. “Such a sweet pup,” he whispers, and Jesus fuck he’s getting hard again, despite the pheromones of another _alpha_ in the room, despite the lips of his _best friend_ parting in a silent moan. 

Louis laughs because he’s a fucking asshole and it sends a thrill down his spine seeing Harry blush in embarrassment, wiggling out of his grip and sliding down the mattress. He doesn’t check whether the duvet is tenting above Harry’s groin, knows it is, knows he’s chubbed up, knows he’s probably longing to touch himself. “I’m gonna get us a table by the window,” he says, straightening up. “You’ve got twenty minutes before I come dragging you out of bed.”

It’s nothing, setting a limit on the time span for Harry to get off, not like that first month in their flat when they had silently agreed to wank simultaneously, separated only by the corner of the living room, Harry on the couch and Louis slumped against the wall in the hallway. Leaving Harry to take care of his want is easy, turning away is easy, winking at him before closing the door is easy. It has always been easy to deny himself.

-*-

Palermo is exactly what he expected and less than he hoped for. For one, there’s barely any buskers. If there’s music on the streets, it’s brassy, coming from speakers. And it’s hot, so hot. Having-to-avoid-the-open-streets-hot. Which is why they find themselves leaning against cool brick-walls, darting into clothing stores, and hiding in lively restaurants for hours on end. But the streets and stairs and squares gain charm because of the warmth in the light and Harry’s ability to romanticise dereliction: He swoons at the sight of crumbling statues and faded miniatures of Madonnas, calls the decaying ceilings of a palazzo nostalgic, and proclaims the balconies, most of which are lined by blue plastic sheets instead of parapets, are the perfect spots to recite poetry.

He does recite poetry, quite frequently. Louis will mind his own business, staring at a seagull or buying gelato, when, suddenly and with gusto, Harry puts a hand to his chest and speaks like a Victorian dandy or a medieval bard. Louis never realised he was that good at memorising lines, especially not with that kind of drama to it. He voices his admiration and watches Harry smirk with the praise. It happens six times until Louis catches him looking up a poem by Oscar Wilde on his phone, nodding his head in deep concentration. He makes fun of him all the way to the other end of the city, up the slope of the mountain where a famous tomb is tucked away.

“And there I was, thinking you had all that in you,” he says as they walk closer to the entrance of the church, a sign announcing the entrance fee. “Turns out, you’re just like the rest of us mortals. Using your _phone_ , like some kind of _peasant_.”

Harry glares at him. “I know the poems, just not... by heart.”

“Sure, I know about the expanse of the universe, too, doesn’t mean I call myself an astronomist.” He knows it’s nonsense as soon as Harry’s glare transforms into a confused blink and a snort.

“Did you just compare poetry to the universe?” He stops and Louis thinks he’s going to slap Louis’ chest with the back of his hand, but instead it comes to rest above his heart. “There is a Romantic in you.”

The space above Harry’s lips is slick with sweat, faint stubble golden even in the shadow of the building. His eyelids are rosy, but Louis can’t discern whether it’s simply the heat or makeup. “How dare you,” he says, slapping at Harry’s forearm. “I can’t tolerate that kind of implication. Now, let’s pay three bucks to see dead saints.”

Louis usually pegs himself as a fairly badass guy. Someone who likes to have a laugh about a lot of things, someone who doesn’t take things too seriously, someone who will look fear in the eyes and cackle. But mummies don’t have eyes and there are _a lot_ of them. He doesn’t let it show but he’s spooked the longer they stay downstairs, a literal maze of bodies around him. There are enough other people milling about, in awe of the preservation or a name they recognize or the craftmanship of a casket but those are not things Louis is keen on scrutinizing.

It doesn’t help that it got dark when they re-emerge from the depths of the earth, the sky a billowing grey and sprinkled with stars, light pollution sparse up here in the mountain side. It’s a giant silhouette above the rooftops and it makes Louis feel insignificant and all actions inconsequential. He doesn’t nag Harry for the entire route back to the hostel, doesn’t complain about having to see skeletons in suits or inhale the dust of centuries of decay, doesn’t cling to him in an attempt to rid himself of the prickling sensation on his back.

It’s fine. Especially when they go out that night and more or less accidentally end up at a party. They take a left turn on a piazza and find themselves amid a dancing crowd that’s wedged between a kiosk and an empty clothing shop, people grinding to 2007 pop and drinking awful cocktails that might as well be straight vodka. Harry flirts with a guy in a mesh shirt and Louis gets tipsy. They’re young and dumb and beautiful and about to conquer the world, in his own words, and, for the first time in years, his problems are literal miles away. He doesn’t think about the uselessness of degrees or the raise in rent or the fact he sometimes wants to kiss the other alpha in his monthly book club, the one with the broad hands and the throaty voice, the one that likes Hosseini and Murakami and Tartt.

He dances and drinks and gets his shirt messy with other people’s sweat, and when the sun bumps the horizon, Harry and he stumble into their room, hands scrambling to find the light switch and each other. Louis giggles when Harry’s palm cups his bicep, leans into him when he’s trying to untie his boots, freely inhales the muted scent of their affection. They don’t bother to brush their teeth or remind the other to guzzle water, tumbling into their separate beds without a good night, and Louis doesn’t dream of running or falling or fleeing and, the next morning, wakes up too hungover to get hard at the sight of Harry’s exposed chest.

-*-

The decision to make this trip as spontaneous as possible but start in Sicily was a bad idea because looking at a map of Italy, they realise all the places they want to see are up north. It’ll take them half a day, if not more, to get to Milan. Louis tries his best at arguing for booking a last-minute flight or at least going to Rome first and making their way up. But Harry insists on keeping their carbon footprint as low as possible and preserving Rome as a sort of highlight for when they’re getting exhausted. Harry pouts and Louis succumbs. Thus, they have a journey of fourteen hours ahead of them, waking up before dawn, Harry’s alarm blaring in the dark.

The take a ferry at one point, too, to get to the mainland. Louis smiles at the forthcoming security at the harbour, looks at the sunburn on his toes and doesn’t think about the news reports of people in boats.

On the second train, they manage to snatch two seats by a table, sitting at the window where there’s a draught to relieve them of the damp heat in the compartment. They bought a ton of snacks and pass them back and forth, Harry’s lips getting shiny from oil and sugar, Louis munching on amarettini and ignoring the cup of coffee in front of him, his fingers leaving smudges on the margin of his book. Harry’s got his journal out but stares at the ceiling or at Louis for most of the time, pen wobbling with the unevenness of the railways.

More people get on as they pass Naples and the day advances, and Harry puts the journal into his tote bag, resting it on his lap to make space for a girl in a leather jacket and black eyeshadow. He starts shuffling a deck of cards, tapping them on the pack of biscuits or the back of his hands, quiet hums in the back of his throat as if he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t suggest a game or explains what’s on his mind, only stares and sniffles. Louis glances at him but refuses to ask, wants to wait if the build-up pays off or if this is just one of Harry’s tantrums without a climax. He has to wait another hour and then some, the fuzzy voice of the intercom dying down, crackling.

“Louis.”

Louis hums and turns a page.

“Louis. Did you hear what she said? There’s a delay of ten minutes.”

“So?” He’s not really listening. The protagonist is currently casting magic for the first time.

“ _Louis.”_ His head snaps up. “We’ll have less than a minute to cross platforms.”

The teenager next to them harshly sucks air through her teeth. “You’re fucked.”

Harry glares at her. “Thanks.”

Louis kicks his shin beneath the table and smiles, putting down his book. “Are you sure we won’t be able to make it?”

“The other platform is -.” She makes a wide gesture. “On the other side. You have to walk down the stairs and up again.”

He reaches for the ticket next to the bottle of water. “So, we take the next one.”

“Next one will not be there for five hours. But...”

Harry, who has his face buried in his hands, grumbles from behind his fingers: “What. Please tell me we can make this train go faster.”

The girl laughs, her braces flashing in the bright sunlight that burns through the window. “No. But you can run across the... the things. The rails. We do it all the time.”

She laughs again when she sees their shocked faces. Then she assures them they won’t be in danger if they’re fast enough, her words affirmed by the old lady behind them who seems like she’d crumble if the wind hit her too strongly but can apparently cross train tracks in five seconds. Louis would rather not risk his life, would rather wait for five hours sitting on a lovely old bench and looking at the beautiful landscape. But Harry is oddly keen on the idea, joins the two women into convincing Louis to jump past a moving train like a total dumbass.

He makes sure to tighten his backpack, triple checks the buckles and stuffs his laces into his boots so he won’t trip over them. He’s already sweating, but as they wait by the door and for the train to come to a stop, droplets trickle down his back and into his pants. His heart is beating faster than that time he came all over himself, thinking about Harry fucking him.

A tinny voice announces their arrival. The station is in the middle of nowhere, nothing but yellow grass and a few lonely rooftops visible in the distance. The wheels screech when the train slows down. Harry struggles to open the door. The old lady pushes him aside and rips it open with staggering strength. Then she shoves them, yelling words he can’t understand. The train begins to rumble, starting to roll. They run, the laughter of the girl soaring behind them. Louis’ body is thrumming with panic and suddenly he is laughing too, giggles shaking him and making it even harder to breathe. Harry must hear him, looks over his shoulder and grins, his cheeks flushed. They jump onto the gravel, knees smarting, then rush across the tracks like they’ve never rushed before.

His ears are filled with the sound of metal against metal, he even imagines tasting it on his tongue. There’s a second where he thinks he’ll never be able to pull himself up onto the platform, but then there are Harry’s hands gripping his arms and yanking him towards him. They stumble, clutching each other, gasping for air. He feels mad with stress and excitement, with Harry’s scent in his nose. It’s sweet and spicy altogether, almost tangible in his mouth and replacing the taste of iron. The pits of Harry’s shirt are soaked, fabric wet against his own skin. Harry says something but it’s white noise in his mind.

“What?”

Harry steps back, eyes glued to the display above the wooden bench. “It’s. The train. It’s delayed.”

“What?”, he asks again, sharper. He stares at the blinking words, at the orange minutes. Indeed. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me??”

-*-

They get to the hostel at 8pm and ring the bell fifteen times, waiting outside the building and staring at the holes in the wall. Maybe hostel is a bit of a generous term. While they show their passports and fill out the registration form, literally standing in someone’s hallway, a child pads in and asks the owner something about an X-Box. The father shrugs and the boy disappears, the theme music of Minecraft wafting from a room close by. They’re led to a room in the back, two beds pushed against the walls, a single bin by the door and a fan on the ceiling. Nothing else. The man scribbles several numbers on a post-it and presses it into Harry’s hand, then vanishes.

They can still hear Minecraft when they’ve changed into their joggers and crawl beneath the thin blanket. It smells like mothballs. “Is that the Wi-Fi password?”

Harry snorts. “Think that’s breakfast and dinner times.” He sticks the note to his bedpost, then falls onto his back. Unlike Louis, he had forgone a clean shirt, his tanned skin glistening in the setting sun. The light cuts through the blinds, stripes of gold dividing his face in three. His eyes seem to glow and the sight sends a thrill up Louis’ spine, his body reacting to another alpha displaying rut symptoms.

Louis throws an arm across his eyes and groans. “We’ll have to share the bathroom with the family, am I right?” The silence is enough of an answer. “I fucking hate this. Why didn’t we invest in a proper room.”

“We can either suck this up and visit a lot of cities or like, three. I told you.” He sounds pissy. But he sounds pissy all the time recently, so Louis doesn’t mock him.

“At least we won’t have to stay in here all day. Any suggestions for tomorrow?” He rolls onto his stomach and fishes for his phone in the backpack next to the bed, scrolls through badly formatted lists and articles on important sights. It’s all old architecture and art. Sometimes he regrets not putting his foot down, then they’d be travelling through all of Europe and searching for the best gay clubs instead.

Harry doesn’t seem like he’ll move any time soon. He’s got his eyes closed, hands resting on his belly, a cherubic sight. Louis has to battle several urges: To shake him until he answers. To lick along his abs. To claim him. But he simply clenches his teeth and copies the opening hours of the closest museum into his notes app. Harry wanted to have his art tour through Italy and that’s what he’ll get. They got one city down, around six more to go. A month of Louis trying to make him as happy as he can.

Ten minutes pass, then he fucks off to find the shower. There are green specks on the edges of the tiles and he wishes he hadn’t forgotten to pack flipflops. At least it makes it impossible to drift, to indulge the recollection of a necklace disappearing between soft pecs. The first three days, he had to physically restrain himself to jerk off. It’s one thing to fantasise about your alpha best friend when you see him every other week, convincing yourself it’s not his body you want to press yourself against but that of an omega, a beta maybe. But it’s entirely different when you’re inhaling his sweat all day, spending endless hours in trains and laughing together, getting hard just knowing he is sleeping on the other side of the room.

He’s in an out in under five minutes, washing away the dirt from the day, freeing his hair from grease and dust. When he comes back, in his joggers and shirt, he feels much better. Less likely to growl at someone. Thankfully, Harry is under the blanket, sparing him the sight of his naked torso. He’s reading, frowning at Khaled Hosseini’s pages.

“Don’t wanna take a shower?” Louis whispers, trying not to disturb the calm. Or hiss at each other again.

“Gonna do it in the morning. I set the alarm for 7am.”

There’s no sense in arguing. They read side by side for a few more hours, only talking when they turn on the lights and hunt for mosquitos as soon as they realise the window was open. Louis’ irritation is back when he goes to sleep, at least five new bites on his body, bug repellent stinging in his nose. At least it covers the smell of Harry’s sweat.

-*-

The next day, he’s torn from his dreams not by the shrill of Harry’s alarm, but by his grunts. For a hot second, he doesn’t understand why Harry is on the floor, the muscles in his back tensing and relaxing in a controlled rhythm, his biceps bulging. He watches him, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, cock fattening up, then he makes the mistake of sighing deeply. Just as Harry’s scent hits, Harry looks up at him, eyes puffy with sleep. His wet curls stick to his forehead. Louis drills his teeth into the tip of his tongue to distract his senses.

“Really, Haz? Push-ups in the morning?”

Harry cocks his head. “M’ spine hurts.”

“And added pain will help?”, Louis asks, turning onto his back and groaning up at the ceiling. There’s a cobweb in the corner. “Isn’t it a little too early for punishments?”

Harry laughs, the sound chopped from the strain in his breathing. “Never too early for those.”

“Ah, right.” Now he’s thinking about Harry being good, asking for a spanking. How his muscle would tense and then go slack, how he’d raise his bum for more, just like he’s raising his bum now, pushing himself away from the floor and down again. His briefs are so God damn tiny. “You’ll have to figure out a private setting for your pain kink. Can’t stand waking up with you grunting every morning.”

He rests a fist on his covered chest and imagines it melting through his bones like lava, sizzling inside his ribcage and encompassing his heart. When he rips his gaze from the spider hanging from the ceiling, Harry is putting on a shirt and struggling to wrangle his arm through the sleeve. It dampens as soon as it hits his skin, the hair in his pits twisted, the deodorant unable to cover his pheromones, and Louis wants to snap at him to go and take another shower, but he’s already been insufferable. He can taste blood where he’s biting on his tongue.

Harry, who is now fully dressed, closes the zip of his shorts and looks at Louis, the edges of his jaw rigid. “You do love talking about my sex life.”

Louis’ heart freezes, enclosed by ice rather than lava. “You make an easy target,” he says and wonders why he’s still staring into the heady pitch of Harry’s eyes. All his senses are on alert. The sheet is creased where his body is touching it, the fabric irritating the sensitive hollows of his knees. But if he’d itch them right now, it might appear like he’s reaching beneath the duvet for something else, so he stays stock still.

Harry steps closer. He’s got his fingers twisted in the bottom of his shirt, atop his belly, his shoulders hunched, seeming taller than he is from Louis’ horizontal position. “Louis, you know-”

Finally, Louis can move. He throws back the blanket swings his feet onto the floor. “Let’s get going. Your turn to pay for breakfast.”

He makes a point of undressing casually, back turned to Harry but not rushing to cover himself, demonstrating that he is, in fact, fine with another alpha seeing him partly naked. In the bathroom, he splashes cold water onto his face and styles his hair into a quiff, something he hasn’t done in a while. It gives him time to stare at himself and come up with one or two pep talks. By the time they’re out in the open sun, he is even able to endure Harry licking vanilla custard from his fingers as they eat stuffed croissants and sip on hot drinks from paper cups.

“Even their cheapest coffee is better than our best,” Harry says, wiping crumbs from his chin.

Louis agrees easily, enjoys the smile that dances around Harry’s lips. They stroll towards the centre of the city, walking past people who want to get their errands done before the height of the day and the zenith of the sun, past children on scooters, past groups of tourists they don’t consider themselves part of because they’re here to _experience_ Italy and _bathe_ in the _culture_. They’re not like the others. The queue in front of the museum is long already, and they get their books out as soon as they settle into the line. A buzz of voices fills the piazza, shutters going off and pigeons flopping their wings to lift into the sky. Not one cloud blurs the blue.

Inside, they follow the masses into the first hall. Harry’s clutching his book on the Italian Masters and reads from it while they stare at the first of many paintings of Mary. Louis listens to the deep lull of Harry’s voice, stares at the golden halos, the sorrowful expressions, the naked Christs on their crosses. This particular one is more exposed than the usual, the loincloth weirdly bunched around his crotch. Louis’ jaw unhinges. “Did they paint him as an Alpha?? Is that allowed ? Isn’t he supposed to be a Beta, being the mediator between Heaven and Earth and all that, not a slave to his _impulses_.” He sucks on his teeth to tame his bitterness. “Can’t have him distracted from doing good.”

Harry’s eyes light up. “There’s tons of research on that! A lot of different depictions in art history. There’s this dude that writes on nothing but Christ’s genitals. It’s genius.”

“Not someone who fears he’s going to Hell for that, huh?”

“There are some who argue the concept of Christ is inherently queer, you know?” He doesn’t even look at the artwork, stares at Louis and seems to dare him to disagree. “With him feeding the people his blood, the wound kind of functioning like a nipple. Or a vulva, like. Because it, I mean he, birthed the church. Look at the shape of it.”

Louis doesn’t. He grins at Harry, pinches where he thinks one of his extra nipples is. “Of course you’re obsessed with Jesus’ nipples.”

Harry bats at his hand, bites at his curling lips. “’m serious. There’s even several paintings of the blood, like. Flowing down towards his dick, defying gravity. And highlighting it. Obviously, a lot of alpha art historians use that to argue it’s about emphasising he had a huge alpha dick and that makes him more, uh, worthy or whatever. But there are others who argue it’s about menstruation and, like. Getting wet.”

They fall silent, suddenly very aware of the people around them. There’s at least one pair of parents that glare at them before pulling their child out of earshot.

“Do you...” Louis is convinced he can see a bit of longing in Harry’s eyes. “Is that why you...”

Harry doesn’t suggest any conclusions to his stuttering, only shrugs one shoulder and hides a faint blush by turning towards another painting. They make their way through the exhibition. The rooms are spacious and impressive on their own, with high ceilings, archways and columns. He takes at least fifteen photos of Harry standing in front of giant canvases or beneath statues of weeping nymphs and dancing satyrs. And when they saunter through the museum shop, he buys a postcard of the painting of Christ and his unmistakable big dick.

They eat lunch on the go, munching on huge pieces of oily pizza and then lapping on their cones of ice cream before the sun melts them. By now it’s so hot only the tourists are out and about. Which doesn’t mean it’s less crowded. They forgo the main piazzas in favour of exploring the intricate alleyways and small shops full of nooks and crannies, trying to keep in the shade. Nevertheless, the sunburn Louis has gotten on the first day of their trip deepens and his shoulders feel sensitive to the touch.

When their legs get tired, they decide to lie down in a small park and rest. Five metres away, someone is playing the guitar, her friends singing when they recognize the songs. Harry is glancing at them from the corner of his eyes before he rifles through his bag and pulls out the aloe vera lotion. Louis watches him dot it on his flushed face and accepts it with a thanks, putting it carefully on his own sore skin. “You wanna join them? Request some songs?”

Harry shakes his head. “Just wish I was good enough to casually start playing.”

“You’ve only started learning recently, cut yourself some slack.”

“I’m barely practicing lately.” There’s a bitterness to his tone that has been in his voice for quite some time now. As if he needs his own words to hurt on the way out. It worries Louis, the small details in which Harry puts himself down. He is wearing shorts he cut himself, seam fringy and frayed. His fingers play with the threads before tugging on the thin hairs of his thighs. The ring on his pinky is the wrong way up. Louis stills his hand and adjusts it. “You have plenty of time.”

“I’m just… Always. Putting things off. I’m never...” He wiggles his hand under Louis’, goes back to plucking the hairs on his thigh, pinching his skin. “I feel like I'm in limbo all the time.”

Louis pretends his breath doesn’t catch in his throat. “Is that why we’re doing this? So you can feel in control again?”

Harry laughs at that. The crease above his nose disappears and his dimples pop, such a relieving sight after all that worry. He even smells happier. Louis can detect his bubbly scent through the aloe vera, used to picking up on it even when he isn’t concentrated on making him feel better.

“I mean... Yeah, that’s partly it,” Harry says. “But I also just wanted to get away from everyone.”

A sick shower of sparks slides down his spine. They’ve known each other for two decades and it still feels like the stars are shining just for him when he’s the centre of Harry’s attention. “Okay, I’ll fuck off then. Leave you to your brooding.”

“No,” Harry draws out, dimple deepening, the thin skin at his temples crinkling. “Don’t leave me!”

And then he’s throwing himself at Louis, arms around his torso like a vice, his hipbone pressing into Louis’ stomach. Panicked, Louis’ eyes flitter around, checking if someone is looking at them. Then the familiarity of the body against his registers and he relaxes, laughing as he pulls Harry close and digs his fingers into his sides. They’re met with tacky cotton and it’s reasonable; they’re both sweat soaked, but it makes Louis want to sink his teeth into the shirt and suck on it. Devour his taste, his smell. Inconspicuously, he pushes his nose into Harry’s curls and inhales. Then he tickles him harder, desperate to distract from the pounding of his heart.

Harry shrieks, trying to grab at his wrists and he’s stronger than him, but Louis knows his weak spots, knows where to push to make him melt. He presses a thumb into the bend below Harry’s ribcage and Harry crumbles, breath punched out of him. And then he simply twitches and giggles as he lets Louis play his body, tears gathering in his eyes from laughter. Only when words of defeat escape between gentle hiccups and low gasps, does Louis ease up. “There we go,” he murmurs, now on top and leaning on one elbow to look down at Harry. “There’s my favourite smile in the whole word.”

They both start blushing and he lets go immediately. Fuck. Sometimes his filter is non-existent. “Can’t have you scaring off the omegas with that frown.” He tacks on, but it’s half-heartedly.

“Sure,” Harry grins. “Because what would we do without them?”

Louis laughs. Tries to make it believable, nods. Rolls onto his back because his muscles are giving out and he feels shaky, suddenly, terrified with the thought that Harry knows. That he can smell it on him.

The park around them comes rushing back to all of his senses. The continuous singing of the woman with the guitar, the fluctuating pitch of conversation, the birds trying to let their singing be heard above the hum of traffic. The scents of various people, of dry plants and grilled food. He decidedly thinks about that, of potatoes wrapped in tinfoil and charred vegetables, instead of the thick desire that’s simmering between Harry and him.

He doesn’t get much time to calm down, before Harry cuddles close and lays his head on his chest. “No more talking.” A shuffle. “Let’s just look at clouds. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly and pats his back.

He does gaze up at the sky but doesn’t register the shape of a single cloud. Harry’s presence is all too encompassing, the weight of him grounding against his frantic heart and his spiralling thoughts. They’ve done this from the beginning, this hovering, the touches that oscillate between too gentle and too animated, a behaviour that would raise the brows of their grandparents and earn them teasing jabs by good-hearted friends.

“I’m here for you, though, you know?” He has to say it. Has to say anything to get rid of the pressure in his throat. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about it.”

When Harry nods, his nose brushes over the fabric on top of Louis’ sternum. “I know.”

-*-

Harry’s art guide recommends a gallery for contemporary art in a posh part of town and because they express worry about not being up to date with the art world, Louis caves in. He regrets it as soon as they’re there. The art is crap, all superficial imagery and cultural appropriation. Everyone is dressed in suits or tight skirts, high heels clicking on the marble floor, scents covered by suppressants and expensive perfumes. The walls are white, the floor is white, the frames are white, the faces are outlined by perfect blush and carefully acquired tans. When Harry asks for the context of a photograph, they’re told prices and auction dates.

Louis scoffs at the alpha in a linen suit, white socks and sandals combo, decides there’s no need for him to tolerate this bullshit, and leaves. Outside, there’s cigarette butts and chewing gum sticking to the cobbles, a foul stench wafting up from a gutter, the district crackling with cars and the confusion of tourists, and Louis is relieved that at least the city can’t pretend it’s something better than it is.

He doesn’t get far until Harry appears by his side. “That was the worst,” he says and looks over his shoulder. The guy is scowling at them behind the windowpanes.

Harry lifts their snapback and brushes through their matted curls, careful not to get their pronoun bracelet caught in their frizzy baby hairs. “Sorry for dragging you in there.”

They have no luck with their choice of restaurant either, its overwhelmingly cramped and expensive and, again, they are the only ones not dressed up to the nines. The beta hostess subtly inhales and leads them to a table in the back without a word. Louis wonders if they seem domineering. He takes a look at his own appearance: A band shirt and jean shorts. Then Harry’s, who rubs their nose with the back of their hand, snapback dirty and the wrong way around. They’re both flushed with sweat and sunburns.

“Maybe we should just go shopping,” Harry proposes after lunch. They are saying it like they don’t have any other option. And true enough, they’ve turned lacklustre and slow, feet smarting. Louis feels bloaty and heavy with the gnocci he had but steals himself moments of rest while he sits in the corners of overpriced second-hand shops and watches Harry pick out shirts and jackets. Neither of them buys anything.

-*-

They decide they don’t really like Milan. It’s too busy, too fancy, too posh. The next day, they stroll across a weekly market that’s not nearly as amazing at the city guide is claiming, and when they walk all the way to the Castello Sforzesco parts of it are closed due to reconstruction. While they’re on their way back, sitting in the rickety tram, they book their trains to Florence. The next morning, they stuff their backpacks in a rush to catch the bus that brings them straight to the central station. From there on, it’s several hours of travel. Harry has his headphones on and stares out the window, so Louis has to make do without having his attention. He reads a bit, then fucks around on his phone, reads some more. Watches the people around them, watches Harry, watches the landscape fly past. There’s a lot of open fields and bright sky and small houses in the distance. When the ticket inspector comes to check on them, she doesn’t look them in the eyes.

Of course, his mood doesn’t lift when they arrive in Florence. The city is beautiful and it’s not too hot, a slight breeze brushing through the closely spaced buildings. But Louis stumbles over cobble stones, his back hurts from the heft of his backpack, and someone sends them off to the wrong hostel when they ask for directions. They walk for nearly an hour until they arrive at the correct street and then have to climb several sets of stairs. 

It’s nice enough. Beige walls, a beige carpet, watercolour prints and fake plants as decor. It smells like thyme. Three girls are squished on a couch in the foyer, bend over Nintendos, legs draped across each other’s laps. They call for their mother when Harry asks to check in. The omega that darts through a door to their right is barely coherent through her apologies. She re-does her bun several times, her fingers fidgety before rifling through the papers on the front desk. Her dress is stained with tomato sauce, a vague aroma of garlic drifts into Louis’ nose. His stomach rumbles.

“Please, sign here and here,” the woman says, handing them pieces of paper. “Do you have... I’m sorry for the question. Can I see passports, please?”

They do as she asks, and she looks everything over with a nod. “Would you like to have breakfast? Plus dinner? I make it myself, it’s not perfect but good enough.”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry says and smiles at her. Her shoulders relax a little.

“Okay, dinner is at eight, breakfast is from seven to ten in the morning, the room gets cleaned at eleven. I apologise, it’s a queen- sized bed, we didn’t have a king sized. But we have rooms free tomorrow and you can change-”

“Wait, it’s a one bed?”, Louis says. It feels like the blood is draining out of his face and into his neck, all too aware of the three girls behind them. Are they giggling?

She seems to pale, too. “Yes? Isn’t that-”

“No worries, we’ll just get a new one tomorrow,” Harry soothes her and sends another smile. He’s slightly rocking back and forth, hands clasped to the straps of his backpack, making himself smaller with the hunch of his spine.

“Are you sure? I apologise.”

“No, it’s alright, really.”

The keycard she gives them is grey from time and rough from use. The eighteen on it looks like a sixteen, the numbers scratched. She walks them down a low-lit corridor that smells even stronger of herbs and garlic, apologising profusely before she rushes back to the kitchen to check if her food is burning.

“For fucks sake,” Louis bitches, as soon as they are alone. “Out of my way, I’m gonna bash my head against the wall.”

Harry slides his backpack off his shoulders. “It’s not her fault. We booked last minute.”

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t care about the bed.” He does care, kind of. He glances at it, from the corner of his eye. It’s big and spacious and build for couples. “I just can’t stand being treated like this. Like they’re tripping over themselves to make up for it, scared we’ll flash our teeth at them or something.”

“It’s not her fault our society paints alphas as superior.”

It irritates Louis even further. His neck heats up and his fingers curls into a fist. He has always been made very aware of his body, of his status: whether it’s because he was drilled to demand respect from other children or chided for paying too much attention to others, reminded that it isn’t proper for a real alpha to be held once in a while. “Of fucking course not, that’s not what I'm getting at. But like, you have to be annoyed by all that fussing as well. Why can’t we just be treated like everyone else? I know this may be different for you, with your gender on top of that, but -”

“Fuck, Louis, this is not about me,” Harry spits. His jaw is clenched. “This is you pitying yourself about people literally doing everything to make you feel accommodated.”

“I’m not pitying myself,” he says and immediately knows he’s lying.

“Obviously.” Harry scoffs and kicks his shoes under the bed. Then he stalks into the bathroom and slams the door shut.

Louis is left with a prickly sensation in his guts. It intensifies when they go to sleep, lying as far away from each other as the span of the mattress allows, their scents sharp and sour, and their irregular breathing loud in the quiet room. He thinks of being a little boy and watching his father control a room full of people with a single, growled word, demanding what he painted as respect but everyone knew was fear. It scared Louis back then and it scares him now to be perceived as that kind of alpha, as someone who is willing to lash out, as a predator. The last impression he wants to give, is that of a man who is willing to cross boundaries.

-*-

When he wakes up, it’s draped across Harry’s back. He’s too tired to panic or move away immediately, limbs in a dream world, his mind sluggish and swimming in abstract images of him climbing up a magic plant. It’s like he can still smell the vegetation, the thin air high up in the sky, and his own struggles. Once he realises he, in fact, smells herbs, his own sweat and more importantly _Harry’s_ , his sight sharpens and his heart kicks into his throat. Harry is lying still beneath him and even though they usually sleep on their front, they’re way too tense. They feel like they’re ready to snap, to turn them around and snarl at Louis, but they're also trapping their arms beneath their own torso, curving their back. Almost giving over to fit themselves against Louis’ body.

“Harry,” drains out of him, his mouth pressed behind their ear. Harry makes a choked sound. They smell so, so good. The spice of it pools on Louis’ tongue when it darts out to taste their skin. One of them rolls their hips. White spots explode in his vision and then he feels his teeth sinking into Harry’s neck. He needs them _still_. Immobile beneath him. The instinct to hold them and move them to his will lets his hands act on their own, they squeeze Harry’s biceps and press them down, preventing them from striking out.

“Fuck, Louis-”, he hears. It’s desperate. And then the situation crystallizes, he understands what he is _doing_ , attacking Harry in their _sleep_. Louis manages to roll off them, breath rushing out as soon as their eyes meet. Harry’s pupils are so blown they almost look like they’re in rut, lids heavy, cheeks burning against the white pillow. They are motionless, staring back at him with an open mouth. They must be so, so angry.

“I –” Louis clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to... this is not...”  
But the words won’t come, so he tries to soothe a hand down Harry’s spine. It’s the wrong move because Harry flinches, hides their face.

“Sorry,” Louis says emptily.

“Can you-.” It’s muffled, wet. Louis is ready to do anything, to go belly up and let Harry assert their dominance, to cuddle them close and apologise again and again, even to try and explain himself some more. Harry doesn’t look at him when they say: “Can you please leave?”

If they’d ask Louis to rip his chest open, it would’ve hurt just as much. He blinks back stinging tears as he scrambles to get up, hitting his shin against the bed, hurrying towards the adjacent bathroom and grabbing a bunch of clothes from his bag before he stumbles inside. He stands beneath the erratic shower, water spluttering over his head and trailing down to his toes, disappearing in the rusty drain. The buzzing under his skin doesn’t quite wash off, despite the twenty minutes he spends washing himself, scrubbing until he’s pink from it. Maybe wanking off would've gotten rid of the electricity, but he is set on not touching himself with Harry in proximity, refuses to give into pleasure when he gives others pain. His reflection is blurred by the steam that thickens the air, but he doesn’t want to look at himself anyway.

He brought two pants with him in his haste to get away and the shirt he puts on should probably get a rinse, but he doesn’t want his torso out in the open, not the way it’s still pink from the water. When he steps out, the window is wide open and it smells even stronger of thyme and rosemary, the fresh morning breeze sweeping into the room and bringing the noise of the street with it. Harry is standing by the sill, wrapped in the duvet, and spins around instantly. They’re past Louis and into the bathroom before he can get out a word. At least he has time to change into a clean shirt.

During breakfast, they don’t talk. There’s only five other people with them, most of them on their phones, and it’s quiet, too quiet. They don’t use cutlery to eat the baked goods, chocolate croissants and sweet buns. Louis watches Harry sip espresso, their pinky tapping against the small cup. As soon as their plates are empty, they are both up and heading for the room again. They had vaguely discussed what they wanted to see for their first day in the city, but neither of them makes a move to put on shoes and get the map.

“I’m gonna ask for a room change,” Harry says eventually, shouldering their backpack. They mumble something about a fountain, being back before lunch, then they are gone. Louis watches the door click shut and he wants to slam it, get up and pace around, get rid of the stinging energy that’s trying to screw itself into his chest, but first he has to wait for his knees to stop feeling like they’re going to crumble. Louis sinks onto the bed, bare without the duvet. The pillow is slightly damp and when he falls headfirst onto the mattress and breathes in, it smells like them.

-*-

Harry only shrugs when Louis proposes for them to get lunch together. He’s got his hands hidden in his pockets, makes sure not to step into their room. It’s the exact same layout as his, same queen-sized bed, same curtains, same frame displaying a cheesy painting. He watches as Harry puts earrings into their lobes, tongue denting their cheeks. They grab their tote bag, camera notably left on the dresser, and raise a brow at him.

“You look nice,” Louis whispers as they walk down the stairs. It stinks of fresh paint, the banister glistening with a reddish glaze.

“Thanks,” Harry replies, dryly. Then they’re on the open street, life surging everywhere. It’s obvious they’re in a residential area, children running after each other, elders sitting on plastic chairs, omegas shaking out carpets and blankets. The supermarkets are smaller, cheaper, less flashy. There are images of the Holy Mary all over the buildings, fading on posters, praying above archways, caged in by the flowing water of fountains.

Louis feels watched by her, feels like he must be careful about his every move. He makes sure not to touch Harry again, afraid he’d intrude. Somehow, he’s always either too soft or too brash, can never find a balance.

“Love, you... you know I'd never – I'd never do that with you, right?”  
He says it as soon as they’ve sat down on the steps by a statue in the middle of a piazza. They’ve gone for pizza again, the hot sauce dripping down his fingers and burning the inside of his lips. “I would never try to...”

“I get it,” Harry says, but their voice is flat, their expression too even. And then they start talking about the statue, the historical importance of another rich patron of the arts.

“No,” Louis interrupts, ignoring the urge to wipe his face of any remaining cheese or tomato bits. “Listen to me. I’d never, ever want to pull some bullshit alpha stunt on you. I was just stressed from yesterday, from the whole trip, to be honest. I didn’t expect for things to get so... difficult.”

He expected a relaxed journey, maybe some spontaneous adventures. No hesitant interaction or near-death experiences or conservative people that force him to rethink his own prejudices.

“It’s difficult, it’s complicated, that’s just how it is.”

“Being your friend was always the easiest thing in the world,” Louis objects. Harry stops with the slice of pizza half way towards their mouth. “There’s nothing complicated about that. We’re both alphas, whatever. And even if everyone says we’re supposed to be avoiding each other, it was always the easiest thing in the world to care – to be your friend. I would never fight you, I promise it’s just my stupid ass brain that’s too overstimulated. It wasn’t some shitty territory fight.”

He smothers the curl in his belly with another bite of the pizza, pretends to be wholly engrossed by a flock of pigeons hopping around the piazza. Breadcrumbs are stuck between the cobbles and they are wildly hacking at them, trying to get them out. The noise and flurry is a great background for the chaos in his brain. As soon as Harry’s hand moves to rest on Louis’ wrist, the twist in his stomach loosens.

“I didn’t realise...” It’s so hot, even in the shade, the warmth of their body is barely noticeable.

“What, that you’re my best friend?”

There’s a wet shimmer in the corners of Harry’s eyes as their grip on his wrist tightens. “No, that you weren’t - I thought you were, like. Doing the opposite.”

Despite himself, Louis smiles. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Harry visibly takes a slow breath, then balances the pizza on top of their thighs to dig both thumbs into Louis’ knee. Their pupils are little dots of black in a shimmering green. “I thought you were coming on to me, like in your sleep. And then when you woke up you realised - like I was, I dunno. Me. Too alpha for you to… you know.”

The smile freezes on his face, as does the blood in his veins. “What?”

“I thought maybe you had a sex dream and humped the first thing close to you and when you realised it was me, you were ... disgusted, or. Something.”

Louis is oddly aware of his face. It’s as if he can feel the wind against every single eyelash that might droop and betray him, as if his nose is growing like Pinocchio's, as if his teeth are about to force his mouth into a cry, confessing his feelings, his desires. Is he that obvious? That open; readable like a book? “No, no”, he says, chuckles. “I was just... sleeping. No dreams. Was just some Neanderthal instinct to huddle close, probably. Like, sharing body warmth. Won’t happen again.”

Harry’s hands go slack, slipping off Louis legs. “Okay. Makes sense.”

“If I was an omega, I’d have been delighted to share a bed,” Louis blurts, because Harry looks _hurt_.

At that Harry almost topples over laughing, the slice of pizza dangerously wobbling, cheeks flushing, and Louis didn’t say it to be funny but if it gets their eyes to twinkle with amusement then he’ll take it. “Jesus, Louis, you’re such an asshole,” Harry says after they calm down. “Sometimes I wonder why you study politics.”

“To get a stupid degree, obviously. And fall into debt.”

“You really hurt me sometimes, you know?”

“I-,” he falters. Picks at a char in the crust of his pizza. “I’m gonna get better, I promise. Might... might take me some time, though. To get my own shit together.”

Harry nods and fiddles with their left earring, tugging on it. “I get that. And I don’t want to rush you but... you’re so stubborn.”

“I am stubborn? You literally got another room!”

“We wanted to do that anyway!”

“Whatever,” Louis says and throws the rest of his crust to the pigeon. “You can have your single room. But for the next city, the next one is a multi-bed room. You were the one who wanted to be careful with the money.”

“You won’t be able to sleep with all those other people snoring.”

He doesn’t dignify it with a response.

-*-

They go to see a statue of David that evening. It’s a bronze copy of the original apparently, and it’s on the other side of the river, overlooking the city like a prince. The hike up the mountain isn’t that difficult but it’s still frustrating, having to avoid bumping into tourists every other step. His feet still smart and they will continue to do so, more weeks of walking ahead of them. But it’s worth it when the sun starts setting as soon as they’re at the top. The base - _it's a plinth, Louis_ \- of the statue glints, the scenery painted golden. A platform stretches towards the city skyline, mountains in the distance. Florence, divided by the gleaming river, is embedded in hills of forests and covered by fluffs of gentle clouds. Cathedrals and the occasional towers protrude from the horizon.

Louis whistles. “Good thing you brought your camera. That’s beautiful, that.”

Harry is already looking through the lens, shoulders slightly hunched. “Will you stop complaining about pebbles in your shoes now?”

“But how would I get you to coddle me otherwise?” He thinks about poking them between the ribs but wants them to take their time with the pictures. They get sulky when they don’t manage an artistic shot.

Louis wanders towards the statue, surprised by its small size. Everywhere.

“Why do all those statues have small cocks. Surely, not all muses could have been omegas.”

Harry puts the strap of camera around their neck and steps closer, crossing their arms. “I think I read something about de-sexualising the male body.”

“ _That_ ”, he snorts, “is not a de-sexualised body. Michelangelo was thirsty when he created that arse.”

Harry hums. “You would’ve been worshipped.”

“Excuse me,” Louis says, knowing full well how high his voice gets at the end. “Past tense? Have you seen this arse? I’m demanding to be worshipped _now_.”

Harry grins and then _squeezes his bum_. “The best in all of Italy.”

He turns a shiver into a jump, just to make it less telling. He’d rather make a scene than reveal the catch of his breath by being too still. Then he can’t help but check if people are staring at them. There are hundreds of other tourists, taking pictures of the orange sky, probably catching the moment on film.

“But what’s more interesting about this are his pubes,” Harry continues as if he didn’t notice Louis’ anxiety. “Apparently, art history has been too stuck-up to write much on body hair, but it’s slowly becoming a trend.”

And then he delves into another one of his speeches, pulling out the art guide or his phone to check some facts, taking all the time to talk about armpits and beauty standards and homosociality. Louis listens and pretends it doesn’t feel like he’s being lectured. Maybe this is Harry’s subtle way of telling him to pull his head out of his arse. But it’s not like Louis can simply decide to let go of decades of careful movements and intense awareness of his own body, how it betrays him. He’s used to taking up space with his behaviour and his voice when he’s around other alphas. And even though it has been different with Harry from the beginning, even though they’ve known each other since they were children, the fear of allowing himself to be fully seen, understood, turns him frenzied, restless.

He convinces Harry to take pictures of him angling his hand in a way that will show up as him grabbing David’s bronze cock, buys them useless souvenirs and sticks a tiny, neon pink version of the statue through the hoop of Harry’s earring. Harry makes fun of him for spending money on trash but is careful not to lose the statue dangling next to his neck, even when they’re descending the mountain and sliding down the sandy path. 

-*-

Cocks seem to be a theme of their trip. They make a point of finding as many naked people in the statues and painting of the Galleria degli Uffizi and Galleria dell’ Accademia as they can. Obviously, they marvel at the original David (that’s apparently crumbling and _slowly sinking into its_ _plinth, did you know, Louis_ _?_ ), the da Vinci paintings, the Birth of Venus and the other Botticellis, but there’s one sculpture from the first century A.D. they study for at least fifteen minutes. It’s a reclining body, one thigh draped over the other and allowing a glance at its dick, a boob squished between the curved torso and a sheet that seems too soft for the marble it’s made of. Harry is less talkative after, leaves Louis to read descriptions on walls and plates if he wants to learn about the art. Which, to be quite honest, he doesn’t. Walking through museums is fun when he can complain about wonky perspectives or the same portraits over and over again, but if he can’t make Harry laugh or roll his eyes, it’s all stern faces that make him feel like a little boy.

Discovering art and the city during the day is nice, it’s what he expected from the trip, it’s what Harry loves. But Louis likes the evenings best. The sunsets are long and saturated, the air comfortable even after midnight. And if they remember to apply bugspray, the mosquito bites don’t get too bad. They stuff themselves full with cheese and ham and pasta and sit outside bars, sipping on cocktails and eating antipasti. Being drunk and staying out late makes it easier to say goodnight in the hallway, to awkwardly hug and stumble into separate rooms. In the span of a week, he’s grown accustomed to Harry’s presence while he sleeps, used to his comforting smell and the rhythm of his breathing. Every morning when he wakes up and doesn’t hear soft snores, he’s convinced Harry has gone out for a run - until he’s overcome with the embarrassment of his memories.

On their third day they get caught by rain. Rain is a bit of an understatement for the waterfalls that come crashing down on them on the way back from a Medici residence. One second, they’re contemplating about the merits of cheese plates, the next the clouds are splitting open and they’re soaked to the bone. It takes them five minutes to run down the street and find an open shop but in the span of that time Louis’ underwear sticks to his arse. They spend half an hour among art supplies, testing out pencils, tickling one another with brushes, and the employee doesn’t even complain, only turns up the radio station. But when the pelting against the window doesn’t stop and Louis starts sneezing uncontrollably, they decide to risk it and get back to the hostel as fast as they can.

He bears ten minutes of running, his calves screaming with it, droplets of sweat and water getting into his eyes, his lungs bursting, then he calls for Harry to stop, gasping for breath. “You’re shivering,” Harry says and trips closer. The soles of his trainers squeak. His curls have created deltas for the water to flow down his face and his lips are glistening, pink from the way he’s biting at them.

“No fucking shit,” Louis hisses. He doesn’t want them to go back, just needs to slow down a little. With both hands tucked into his armpits, he marches towards the bridge that leads them to the busier part of town. When they crossed it earlier today, they were barely able to see the water, too many people on it. Now it’s almost empty, only a few others with disgruntled expressions and ineffective umbrellas hurrying next to them.

Harry slings an arm around Louis’ neck. He is warm and Louis wants to sink into his side, but he’s not weak, he can take care of himself. “I’m not gonna catch pneumonia, don’t fuss.”

“God, do you ever shut the fuck up and – and let yourself-...be-,” Harry stammers but pulls back. They march through the rain, Louis shivering, Harry maddeningly not. The streets are overflowing, gutters gurgling, forcing them to wade through streams of swirling water.

Once they are in the hostel, creating stains on the beige carpet in the corridor, Louis pulls his soaked shirt off, trying to rid himself of the clinging cold. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says while he pulls out his keycard. “See you for breakfast?”

Harry has his arms crossed over his chest. A drop of water slides down his nostril. “You wanna watch a film before... you know.”

“Now?” The wet shirt squelches as it hits his thigh. He’s leaving a puddle on the floor.

“Just wanna make sure you don’t freeze.” Harry’s blushing. Full on turning red and avoiding Louis’ eyes. 

The state of the room flashes through his mind – backpack toppled over, clothes spilling out, towels hanging from the wardrobe, the bed messy. But he _misses_ him. It’s going to be a hell of a readjustment when they’re back in London. “Don’t come in for another twenty minutes.”

Harry nods, grinning like he’s won something important. It makes Louis’ heart stumble once, a tiny wobble, but he has plenty of time to gather himself in the shower. They’ll only sit in the bed he was pressing Harry into for two hours, less if he’s lucky and it’s an old movie. They’ve talked about it. They’ll be fine.

He cleans the room as much as he can and opens the window to freshen it out, despite his goosebumps. It’s the first time he’s felt proper cold since they stepped foot into the country. At least there’s a hair dryer in the bathroom.

Harry’s curls are dry, too, when Louis gestures him inside. He’s dressed in silk shorts and a tank while Louis has wrapped himself in a jumper. It’s annoying how good he looks, how cosy. The lacy seam of the pants ends just above his tan line and the tank top has his own name embroidered above a nipple. It’s always been something to make fun of, but Harry’s also carrying two steaming cups, so the sharp words on Louis’ tongue melt.

They watch a subtitled soap opera on the shitty TV in the corner and sit close to each other on the bed, shoulders brushing. He sips his tea and suppresses his sneezes. When Harry intertwines their legs, Louis doesn’t complain. But he is hyper aware of the shape of them under the duvet, of their adjoined skin, the lace, his toes tracing Harry’s ankle. The cold leaves him and he’s glad about the wind coming through the open window, the scent of rain washing out everything else. Barely thirty seconds after they’ve put down their empty cups, Harry scoots down the mattress and shimmies under Louis’ arm, cheek rubbing into the jumper.

“D’you understand what that lady is doing? Why is she at a cemetery?”, Louis asks to drown out the hammering of his heart that reverberates in his chest. His fingers lay stiff and rigid on Harry’s side, the muscles in his arms straining from the way he’s trying not to settle it into the bend of his shoulders.

“No, but I like her eyebrows.”

He swallows. “Very expressive, those.”

“They look like yours.”

Louis doesn’t know what the fuck to reply to that, so he shuts up again. Eventually, he allows himself to comb through Harry’s hair, following the spring of his curls. When they are like this, close and calm, it takes no effort for his worries to subside, to dry up like the water dried on his skin. It’s just them in their bubble. Caring for each other like they always have. He traces the moles and freckles on Harry’s temple, darkened by the sun. His touch travels, along cheekbones and the cut of his jaw, towards the edges of his lips. Louis sees his own finger on Harry mouth, sees the kiss Harry presses to it, but it doesn’t feel like it’s his, feels like it’s disconnected from his hands which is disconnected from his arm which seems to float. He’s one of those surrealist paintings, seeing the back of his head in his own reflection.

They watch three episodes and are both groggy when the program changes. Louis has a half-formed thought to ask Harry to stay, but Harry groans, stretches and sits up. “Maybe we’ll just get breakfast somewhere else tomorrow? Brunch?”

“Sounds good, sounds good,” Louis says, chokes on a sneeze that surprise attacks him. He pulls the duvet up to his chin. “Might have to buy a pack of tissues somewhere.”

Harry smirks but doesn’t say _I told you so_. He stretches again once he’s stood up, silk riding high up on his thighs. His hand comes up to do something – ruffle Louis’ hair maybe or poke his nose, but it stops mid-air. Before Harry’s blush can spread from his cheeks, Louis interlocks their fingers and shakes his arm. “Good night, Bro. Looking forward to seeing you soon.”

Louis falls asleep, still hearing Harry’s answering giggle.

-*-

Pisa is small and the leaning tower tiny. If the patch of grass stretching towards it wasn’t so infested by tourists, he’d google whether they’re in the right place. They take the obligatory pictures, get creative with the phallic symbolism, and make comments about size. Thankfully, they’re only staying for one night because Harry was completely correct when he said Louis couldn’t sleep in a room full of six other alphas. Their sounds and scents keep him up half the night, his body tense with it. He tosses back and forth, thinking of intense aromas to trick his brain into believing he’s actually smelling soap or lavender or cocoa. All it does is conjure up childhood memories of water fights, shared baths and dripping popsicles. They used to be so carefree before they hit puberty, before any of them knew what they were going to present as.

Harry mocks him for the bags under his eyes during the whole train ride to the beach. But he also buys them iced coffee and a plastic bag of nectarines. The juice gathers in the corners of their mouths when they eat them after the first dip in the ocean, fingers getting sticky and eventually dusted with sand. Salt dries between his lashes and in the tips of his hair, Harry’s curls are a mess. When they apply sun blocker for the second time, Louis’ skin feels like it’s suffering through a peeling. “Sometimes I forget that sand is the evil on earth,” he mutters.

“Alright, Mr. Skywalker,” Harry says. His bare nose is glinting with white lotion but the rest of him is rosy, his sunburns slowly turning tan, his chest golden. The cross of his necklace draws Louis’ attention to his pecs, to his nipples, cinnamon in colour. “Do you want me to do your back?”

His first impulse is to say no, then he sees the soft smile on Harry’s lips. Wordlessly, he settles onto his towel. The heat and Harry’s weight bear down on him. Sweat slides down his temples. And Harry’s hands are broad on his shoulders, careful not to dip too low towards his arse. He pictures Anakin Skywalker having a tantrum to will away his arousal. Then he pictures Luke Skywalker in spandex and curses whoever came up with that costume design.

They watch the Star Wars movies repeatedly, Harry and him. Made a day of it, a sleepover, when they were living together. Now it’s more of a reason to spend the night and play drinking games. The last time, they stayed up until four in the morning, pissing themselves with laughter and re-enacting the fight sequences, pew-pew-ing and whooshing their imaginary guns and lightsabers. It was when Harry and Lenny were still together, clinging to each other. Harry had promised his boyfriend to drive over at midnight. The next day, Louis woke up when Harry entangled their limbs to take a disappointed call.

On their first night in Palermo, Harry had said his gender wasn’t the only factor in his and Lenny’s breakup. Louis swallows his guilt and quips a thanks once Harry sits back on his haunches and murmurs: “Done.”

He isn’t looking at Louis. The vein in his neck throbs.

“Let me return the favour,” Louis says and gently pushes Harry onto his Ariel towel. He goes easily, pliant when he’s lying down and Louis settles on the back of his thighs, not saying a word. It’s why he dares to take his time, drawing patterns with the lotion and applying deep pressure. He makes it into a pseudo backrub, loosening the knots along Harry’s spine.

There’s nothing weird about it. They’ve done this before, they grew up together. It’s normal behaviour between friends, between alphas, even if it’s rather rare. Besides, no one is close enough to scent them, they probably appear like a beta couple. This is a secluded beach, mostly visited by locals and they’re all too busy sleeping in the midday heat or building sandcastles to take a look at them. 

“Can you do the back of my legs, too?”, Harry asks quietly. It’s barely audible over the crashing of the waves.

Louis crouches between his knees, rearranges them to do so, and bites his tongue while he works his way up, rubbing the sunscreen over his calves, massaging Harry’s thighs. He’s shaved this morning. In the middle of the showers that are shared by eight alpha men. Just popped out his razor and his shaving cream and leaned against a wall for support, casually. Louis had stood frozen beneath the spray before he rushed out and got dressed. Now he lets his eyes roam across the expanse of his smooth skin, the curves of his muscles, the dip of his waist, the space between his thighs where his skimpy little trunks ride up. When Louis’ thumb accidentally catches on the bottom of them, Harry’s legs spread in a shiver.

“We should go out tomorrow,” Louis blurts out.

“If you wanna.” It’s slurred. The low pitch scares him less than it should.

“Alright! Maybe we can both get -.” He stops. Swallows the remark about getting laid. “Get some nice drinks.”

He’s done by now, simply sitting on his knees and staring at the back of Harry’s head. His hair has begun to dry, sand light against the glinting brown. “Sure.”

Louis tries to level his breathing and regrets it instantly. Harry’s scent is heavy, cutting through the sharp fragrance of the sunblock, through the salt on Louis’ tongue, meshing with the sweet remains of nectarines. He spaces out, sucking on his own bottom lip and staring at Harry’s neck. The wet fabric of his own swimming trunks cling to his crotch and it’s the only reason his cock doesn’t chub up. It’s like a punch in the face, that realisation. In a haste to break up the tension, he claps his hands twice and then swats at Harry’s arse. “Let’s get back into the water, lazy one. Can’t sleep the whole trip.”

He only sees the twitch in Harry’s body in the corner of his vision, already getting up. But he hears the gasp. He does the only thing he can think of and runs towards the waves.

-*-

On the train to Siena, Harry doesn’t listen to music for a single second. He’s not reading either and Louis watches him over the margin of his own book. Despite the healthy radiance of his skin, the perfect sweep of his curls and the playful cut of his top, he seems off. Something heavy must be weighing on his mind for his scent to be so fuzzy, so grainy. It’s almost visible static around him. He gazes out of the windows like he’s searching for something among the fields and patches of trees.

Louis puts the book on the table between them and rests his chin on his fists. Stares as long as it takes Harry to turn his head and raise a brow. “Why’re you looking out the window like you’re in an indie movie, Love?”

Harry cracks a smile. “Just thinking.”

“I figured.” He doesn’t want to outright ask – still feels like he has to be careful about intruding into spaces he doesn’t belong in. It’s been difficult to find a balance with Harry. To keep the honesty they’ve developed as children but respect each other’s boundaries as young adults. As alphas.

The train shudders as it bends into a curve, a small forest blurring by the window. A cloud glides in front of the sun and the light that was formerly warm and yellow loses saturation, softening the shadows in Harry’s face. “Did I tell you why Lenny and I broke up?”

“Said something about your lives not matching up. Him being an ass and being a dick about your gender. But – darling, you know he’s not – … there’s better people. For you.”

Harry thumbs at his mouth, picking at the dead skin of his lips. “Yeah.”

Maybe he’ll leave it at that. He’s quiet for a minute and Louis is itching to open his book again, look anywhere but the sad slant of Harry’s eyes. His leg starts bouncing up and down, so he shifts and puts it under his bum, wiggling on the seat. It’s relatively comfortable, compared to the trains they’ve been on before. No jutting seams or spilling upholstery. He leans into it, wills his spine to melt, and reaches for his book, planning to read about the protagonist facing the enemy. 

“We broke up because I don’t feel comfortable dating omegas. Anymore,” Harry says. Fast, faster than he ever talks. “It’s not like I'm not attracted to them, still, but I just … hate the way I feel around them. Into what role I’m expected to fall when I date an omega. And it wasn’t Lenny’s fault, but I couldn’t... do that anymore. I can’t.”

“I get that,” Louis claims even though he doesn’t really. “What makes you feel good is what’s important. Plenty of alphas date betas.”

Harry chuckles and picks at his cuticles. His nails are blue and pink. “I’m not talking about dating betas.”

Louis knows, is the thing. Of course, he does. But he won’t be the first to put it out in the open. “Alright. Okay. I know you’ll be happy whatever the future has in store for you.” It’s such a kitschy statement, they both crack up for a second.

The traces of laughter don’t leave Harry’s face, the sorrow in his eyes replaced by mirth. “Thanks. I appreciate your fortune telling.”

His hands are already resting on the table, so Louis grabs one and jabs into the lines on his palm. “Here. A good future, good sex, and good health. Blessed.”

“Good sex, huh?”

Louis doesn’t blush, but his face warms up. “Obviously. I remember the stories you told me.”

Indeed, he does. Countless of stories, Harry bragging about his skills, about his tongue, about his big dick, about being the perfect vers and giving into his partner’s needs. Louis never needed to know Harry also bottoms, prefers to bottom. He never needed to know Harry loves a bit of pain. Never needed to know he wants to be spooned, after. He hides behind his book before the images can take shape.

Unfortunately, they have to walk quite a bit to get to the hotel and it means all too much time for him to spiral. It starts simple enough: Harry and Lenny, the way Harry always seemed strained around him, easily irritated. And then it’s memories of the two kissing, shy pecks because they were never particularly blatant about showing affection. They either must’ve had some boring sex or acted entirely different when they were alone. Louis wonders if Lenny every spanked Harry, yanked him around a bit, how their bodies must’ve looked pressed up against each other, all slick and exerted. If Harry gets quiet when he’s coming or loud and restless.

The sun is white with heat and Louis is sweaty, his backpack itching against his bare neck and resting too heavily on his hips. At this point, his calves are perpetually sore, and his feet have merged with his boots. For his next vacation he’s going to treat himself a ski trip in the Alps. At least Harry is happy. As soon as they’ve stepped through the gates of Siena, he started pointing out the similarities in architecture, the structures that centre around a huge piazza. His silence from the train is gone and he’s excited, grabbing at Louis when he notices a familiar emblem or a cat disappearing under an archway. Every time his hand clasps around Louis’ wrist or his dimples emerge, Louis feels a zing of affection. He hopes they won’t have to share the bed again because his restraint seems to crumble with every step.

They indulged in their choice of place because the city is small and less expensive, mostly populated by students. There are groups of them, which thankfully means so many scents at once his own must be indiscernible, and they seem used to backpackers asking for help. Louis makes Harry check the address when they’re supposedly in the right street, though. It’s way too nice. A beautiful courtyard with potted plants, elegant benches, citrus trees and the titter of birds. A yellow façade, window shutters open and white curtains dancing in the breeze. Inside, there’s a welcoming omega that hands them a key – an actual metal key - and tells them their room has the best view.

“I’ll take the bed by the window,” Harry says as soon as they’ve dropped their backpacks. “Otherwise you’ll just catch a cold.”

“It was a few sneezes,” Louis objects with a pout.

“Exactly. Your immune system is already weakened.”

He rolls his eyes, undetected by Harry who is stripped out of his shirt and is searching for a new one, on his knees with his stuff strewn across the floor. The tan on his back has evened out on the beach, the reddened patches on his arms blending into the healthy glow on the wings of his shoulders. Louis’ fingers tingle with the desire to scratch down his spine and rough him up a bit. He stops himself by proclaiming he’s going to test out the shower. In there, he makes it quick, tipping his head under the cold spray, hands by his sides, ignoring his cock.

After dinner, they buy cheap red wine and sit down on the giant piazza in the middle of the city. It’s a vast depression in the pavement, bigger than a football pitch, almost circular if it weren’t for the Palazzo Pubblico and its white, even front. Its tower had been visible from outside the city gates and is now looming above them. Apparently, they host brutal horse races on the tracks around the piazza. Not that Louis is keen on being squished in a crowd of yelling horse fanatics.

“Maybe we should just stay here,” Harry mumbles into the bottle. “I don’t really want to go partying anymore.”

They hadn’t found a gay club nearby, anyway. And there are plenty of other people their ages just chilling on the flagstone, laughing in numbers, cuddling in pairs. “We’ll just go out it in Rome, should be easy.”

“And I like those things.” Harry points at a man who seems to be throwing arrows of light up into the darkening sky. On their way down they spin on their own axis, tiny parachutes blinking in flashes and obstructing the view of the stars. When the man notices their interest, he walks over, and Louis gets a bunch of the plastic propellers for a few coins. He tries to figure out how to activate one and drops the rest into his lap. Harry snatches one right from his crotch, bottle stuck between his own legs.

Louis forgets to bother with the light in his hands and instead watches Harry squinting at his, tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth. His lips are already pink from wine. When he gets it, he’s so happy about it, it squeezes Louis’ heart. The fist of lava around it constricts some more when Harry tries to throw the parachute up into the air and it merely flies two metres before hitting him on the nose. He pretends his laughter is solely because he’s making fun of Harry and not a hysteric reaction to his own realisation: That he wants to see him flushed with excitement for the rest of his life.

Harry loses three propellers to the dark of the night before he manages to make one fly high enough to descend slowly and spinning in circles. He almost knocks over the wine in his delight and Louis makes a grab for it without thinking, sees his own hand wrapped around the bottle between Harry’s thighs, green glass reflecting the flickering lights, and coughs on his own spit. Harry hears it. Looks Louis in the eyes, then at the hand in his crotch, raises a brow and outright cackles at him. “Not so fast, Cowboy.”

Louis brings the bottle up to his mouth and downs a few gulps. “It was about to ruin your fancy trousers; you should thank me.”

“Of course,” Harry says pleasantly. “My strong alpha saviour.”

When Louis’ tongue stumbles over a reply, Harry’s grin gets lopsided. He leans in, wine sharp on the humidity of his exhales. There’s a faint stubble on his chin and around his mouth and an odd sensation on Louis’ skin, a phantom touch. They’ve been here before. Tipsy and close. “Do you wanna try?” Harry’s breath is sweet, so, so sweet, fruity and dark.

“What,” Louis whispers, dazed.

Harry cups one of Louis’ hands and presses something into it, rings slotting into the space between Louis’ knuckles. “You should try.”

He looks down at the propeller, almost shaped like a maple seed except it doesn’t just rely on gravity and wind. When he throws it, it makes a whistling sound and glides down perfectly, the light dancing in swirls. Harry looks smug when Louis checks his reaction. And then he says, licking his lips: “You should get a reward. First for saving me from the wine and then being a natural at this. The skills. The reflexes. Magic hands.”

Louis gasp on a laugh. “Jesus. You have no chill. A reward, huh?”

Harry on his knees is what first comes to his mind. Harry on his knees in the hotel room, his naked torso exposed in the dark. His lips, as red as they are now, slack and parting. Sinking down on Louis’ cock, kissing his knot. When he starts noticing his own scent, he knows he’s in trouble. His heartbeat is throbbing in his ears, on his tongue, in the tips of his fingers. And then he registers Harry’s quiet moan.

“Are you thinking about – what are you thinking?” Harry’s eyes flicker between Louis’, the heaviness of his gaze resting on Louis’ face. He sounds so desperate. It scares Louis to no end.

He shakes his head, puts some distance between them by sitting up. “This is fucked up.”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Harry _demands_ , alpha voice rumbling.

Louis whites out. The last thing he notices is the bottle shattering and liquid trailing down his calf, then the chatter of the hundreds of people around them dies down, the blinking lights in the sky dim, and all he can perceive is Harry; Harry’s breath, Harry’s scent, Harry’s skin under his fingers while he grips him by the collar and bares his teeth. “ _Don’t_.”

They’re interrupted before anything can happen, a strong hand by his shoulders pulling him away, but he feels the tension draining from Harry’s body, sees the stutter of his lips. It’s the only reason he doesn’t strike the alpha pulling at his shirt. “You two need to break it off,” the man says. He’s not tall but obviously works out, flexes when Louis snaps at him to step back. “You don’t want the police seeing you. They’re very uptight, here.”

There are two omegas behind him, one of them laughing incredulously, the other has her phone drawn out, thumb hovering over it. She looks like she’s ready to bring them in. Embarrassed, Louis pulls his legs up and groans into his knees. This is exactly what was missing: A public display of losing his shit, of behaving like an aggressive alpha stereotype.

He hears Harry apologising, promising it was nothing, inviting the three to sit down with them. The alpha takes it as permission to watch them like a hawk. They scoot over a bit, so none of them has to sit in the red wine and shattered glass but Louis regrets not telling them to fuck off or disappearing himself. Now he’s got that entitled man on his one and the two omegas on his other side, all of them politely not commenting on the scent of his and Harry’s agitation. They make small talk while Louis descends into mild panic about his life choices.

He wants to kiss Harry. He may even want Harry to kiss _him_. He is about to pass out.

“You want a smoke?” The omega closest to him asks. Her raised brows disappear into the fringe of her box braids. She’s smoothing the edge of a cigarette, a bag of tobacco in front of her crossed legs. Her friend is still looking at him suspiciously. 

He accepts it with a thankful nod. It helps. “Sorry, missed your names. ‘m Louis.”

“I’m Furaha and that’s Loreta.” She starts rolling another cigarette. “We’re studying engineering at the university here. You here for a semester?”

“No, we’re interrailing,” he says. He doesn’t want to give more information and risk having to talk longer.

“Ah,” she makes and exchanges a look with her friend, who leaves a lipstick stain around the second cigarette. “What’s your next stop?”

“Dunno. Probably Rome or Bologna.”

The alpha, who has been awfully chatty with Harry, perks up. “Don’t go to Rome, it’s awful. Too busy.”

Louis doesn’t answer, but Harry tells him they want to see the Colosseum and the Forum Romanum and go clubbing while they’re there. His voice is back to normal, his eyes less glazed. He’s very much not looking at Louis.

“No, no. Don’t go to clubs. The best parties happen in the streets. We can take you to one, if you would like.” The man pats Harry’s knee.

And then Harry starts flirting. Louis knows what it looks like because he’s witnessed him with Lenny, witnessed him with all his partners. He tilts his head, he curls his lips, he blinks slowly. The other alpha doesn’t seem to mind, even ruffles his curls at one point. Louis wishes he still had the wine. Either to drink it or smash it again. “So, what are you engineering?” He asks the two women, taking in another drag of smoke. The adrenaline in his veins is ebbing off and he starts feeling exhausted.

It only takes half an hour of meaningless conversation and Harry’s chuckles in his ears until he excuses himself, proclaiming he’s got wine drying on his skin and would like to change.

He gets lost on the way to the hotel, stumbles several times and the key doesn’t seem to fit into the lock at first, but eventually he makes it into the room and into bed. The freshly washed sheets are nothing but a blank canvas for his mind to run wild. Harry wanted him. _Wants_ him. Unapologetically so. He probably would’ve kissed Louis right there on the piazza in front of the whole town. And he would’ve tasted like wine and his own spit, like raw need. Louis’ heart constricts and his cock throbs. He’s alone in Italy, a country of passion and love, and he just rejected his best friend.

His best friend who is currently flirting with another alpha, maybe even kissing him already, maybe going home with him. Maybe getting fucked in this very moment, maybe choking on desire and pleasure.

Louis can’t help but touch himself. He’s been holding off for ages, always worried about being caught but right now Harry isn’t here, he’s off with some other alpha, making innuendos and drawing attention to his plush mouth. His mouth that would look so good on Louis’ cock, swallowing his come. He thumbs over the head of his dick and imagines Harry looking up at him with blown eyes as he fucks into his fist. If he concentrates, he can taste the sweetness of Harry’s breath on his tongue. He’s rough and determined, makes it quick. His orgasm approaches fast and shakes his entire body, painting his chest white. It’s a lot of come he has to wipe off with the tissues he bought earlier, makes him feel sticky and disgusting. But he’s too tired to shower and he falls asleep as soon as he throws the used tissues into the bin by the bathroom.

-*-

Harry bangs onto the door when Louis is in the middle of a dream. He stumbles out of bed, naked except for the boxers he pulls on in a surprisingly clear thought. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, are stinging when he opens the door and is met with the bright lamp of the corridor. He goes to shield them with a hand but Harry grips it, knocks into him. “There you are.” It doesn’t sound drunk, just sleepy. All traces of wine have disappeared from Harry’s scent, instead there’s a smudge of ice cream in the corner of his mouth.

Louis hugs him close. “Here I am. And there you are. Did you have fun?”

“I wanted to make you jealous,” Harry whispers into his ear. A curl tickles Louis’ neck. “I wanted to make you feel -... feel like I do.”

“Love-” There’s something wedged between his ribs. A stake, maybe. Something splitting the bones.

“I see you, Louis,” Harry continues, his fingers digging into Louis’ spine. “I see the way you look at me. When you see that I want you.”

Hot tears gather in his eyes. He doesn’t have it in him to lie and deny it, leads them towards the bed by the window. Harry goes pliantly, undresses slowly, changes on his silk pants when Louis hands them to him. The curtains aren’t thick enough to block out the city lights, haloing Harry’s silhouette and fluttering behind him. Louis helps him put on a shirt and lays a hand on the nape of his neck, urges him to sit. It’s a possessive gesture and usually a reason for fights between alphas. But Harry slumps, his forehead resting against Louis’ tummy. “It breaks my heart to see your fear,” he says. Muffled by Louis’ skin. “I just... I. I just want you to be happy.”

Louis tries to breathe around the pain in his chest. “I’m happy when I’m with you. But I -… this isn’t easy for me.”

His muscles jump when Harry mouths atop his navel. “Want to taste you.”

Louis buries his nails in the back of his head. “Fuck, Baby, stop -”

“Did you get off?”, Harry asks, his eyes flashing open. “You smell like come.”

“Fuck,” Louis blurts again, lurching. The back of his knees hit the other bed and he sinks onto the mattress, creating space between them. For the second time tonight, he buries his head between his legs and tries to regulate his breathing. The room is permeated with the tang of his come, stronger now that he’s sitting on the sheets he wanked into. It had always repulsed him, the stench of his arousal, more so when it was meshing with the sickly-sweet perfume of omegas. But right now, there’s Harry’s scent laced through it and, God, his mouth waters.

He hears a shuffle, looks up, and as soon as their eyes meet, Harry pinches his own parting lips. “I want to-… I can be so good -”

“Just go to sleep,” Louis snarls. “Please, Darling, you need to give me time. Sleep.”

They lie there, under their duvets, air humid and preventing Louis’ lungs from working properly. He’s reached the end of all his spirals. At the bottom of his mind, below the pressures of his past and the grid of his present, there’s nothing but the prospect of his own future. He swallows a cry, pinches the top of his nose between trembling fingers. Italy’s darkness is just as enveloping as London’s. But there’s a bunch of propellers in his pockets to light up the sky. Somehow, that makes it easier.

-*-

He calls a friend the next day; sneaks out of the room while Harry is sleeping and sits on a bench in the courtyard, jumper shielding him from the morning breeze. He taps on his phone for a while, thinks of painted nails and gentle hands, then he pulls up his contacts. The sun is bright on the white marble columns, reflecting on the mosaics atop the entrance to the hotel and the round tables in the corners. He toes with the moss between the cobbles and breathes in the aromas of baked goods, coffee and ripe fruit. A waiter checks on him and quietly puts down a tray of biscuits, latte macchiato and grapes while he’s talking into the speaker. The conversation is long and starts with “can you just tell me everything is going to be alright?”

Of course, he doesn’t outright declare anything. He’s already used to coming out as gay, he wants to go differently about saying he wants to date another alpha. Mention it in passing, give people less room to corner him about it. But he does inquire about the cousin of his friend, the one he knows is married to another alpha. He tests out some waters. Swims in them for a while.

Afterwards, he brings up another tray of breakfast. The key in the lock must wake Harry – he sits up against the headboard when Louis enters. “Budge over, Darling,” Louis says and puts the tray on the bedside table. “You’ll love these little biscuits, I ate a hundred of them just now.”

Harry is all the way up pressed against the window and hunched in on himself. He accepts the food quietly, munches on some grapes and dips a finger into the foam on the coffee. A red line paints his cheek where he must have slept on the crease of the pillow. Louis rests atop the duvet, hands in his lap, careful not to let their shoulders touch. He decides to just go for it. “When I first presented as an alpha, I was terrified. On one hand most of the men in my family are alphas, on the other everyone always went on about my body and how it’s small and the perfect omega shape. And it’s - whatever. I don’t care about that. But the same way I knew I wanted to kiss boys, and, and maybe alphas. I think. As a boy. But then I presented, and you presented, and I didn’t know – It was much more difficult to understand I wanted … wanted alphas when I had a rut every three months where all I could think was... _is_ knotting some omega.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He chews and looks down at the cup in his hand.

Louis might faint. “There’s... you know there’s nothing that feels like a rut. And I was always worried why I didn’t feel the same when I had sex, because - yeah.”

“A rut is not the same as attraction,” Harry mutters.

Louis peers at him. He’s got curls tangled in his lashes. “Yeah. Took me a while to figure that out.”

He steals a grape, lets it burst on his tongue, the skin firm and bitter but the juice sweet. When he reaches for another, Harry plucks it for him and puts it in his palm. “My first time was with another alpha. I never told you, but, uhm. Yeah. When I was fifteen. He was my first boyfriend and then he moved away and then I started dating omegas, because that’s what you do. At that age.”

“And you kept dating them.”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs. “I am attracted to them, just... as I told you. I don’t - like myself when I’m around them. Feel better when I’m not expected to play a role. Feel best when I’ve got a knot in my mouth.”

“Jesus,” Louis says. Can’t say or think anything else.

“It was why it was so easy for me to understand I’m genderfluid.”

“What do you mean?”, he asks and finally dares to stroke a finger over Harry’s knuckles, steals the grape right back. With the other hand, Harry brings the cup up to his mouth and takes a small sip.

“The euphoria of people acknowledging your gender is very similar to the euphoria I feel when I’m close to other alphas. I feel... seen. Acknowledged, in like. My whole,” he makes an abrupt gesture and almost spills the coffee. “My whole... Me.”

“Euphoria, huh?”

Harry turns his head. His cupid’s bow is wet, the stubble above it glinting in the light. There’s a weird expression on his face, the hint of a smirk, the droop of his lashes. Behind him, on the other side of the windowpane, the city is reluctantly getting ready for the day. “I’d offer to show you, but you freaked out the last time I tried to kiss you, Honey.”

Louis bites down his laugh. “You used your _alpha voice_ on me. What’d you expect?”

“God, I wanted to suck you off right then and there.”

“Okay, okay”, Louis covers his ears. “Just because I’m adult enough to try and apologise to you, and... say... things, doesn’t mean I’m ready for you... saying that.”

Harry waits until Louis has his hand back in his lap then he grins wide: “I want you to choke me on your knot and push me around, Daddy.”

Louis shrieks and jumps off the bed, but the stutter of his heart doesn’t scare him.

-*-

They get lunch with the three people they met yesterday. Harry got the man’s number last night and makes no secret of it, outright says he would’ve slept with him. His name Quyen and he’s actually quite nice when he isn’t the embodiment of what Louis is too afraid to be. They’re shown around Siena, receive insider information about parties and first-class ratings for the best gelato. Loreta is still wary around them, especially towards Louis, but she takes them to her favourite spot: A set of stairs that ends in thin air and faces a huge mural on a church. She and Harry discover their shared love for art and she recommends them a few museums and galleries for their next cities.

Louis likes Furaha best. She's smaller than him, has a typical omega body and is an observant listener. She continues talking when he accidentally interrupts her, barrelling through his awkwardness, demands attention instead of giving it and makes Harry giggle a lot. And she kisses Loreta in the middle of a drug store. His sneezes haven’t re-appeared, but his throat has started to itch, so he asks where he could get some lozenges. While he’s staring at his options, he hears the two women banter in Italian. They get quiet suddenly and he turns, worried they’ve left him. His jaw drops slightly when he sees Furaha on her tip toes, engulfed by Loreta’s arms. They’re really going at it, kissing in the middle of the aisle, Furaha’s hands in Loreta’s curls, their chests aligned.

“I didn’t know you two are a couple. I, I mean – are you? Are couple?” He clears his throat once they’re on the open street again. He doesn’t know why he’s approaching the subject like this. Harry and Quyen are waiting by a fountain, both dripping with water.

Furaha snorts. “What, did we scare you off?”

“No, I mean – no, obviously not. I was just surprised, you know, to see you doing it in the open-”

“We weren’t _doing it_ – ”

“What I mean is just, back home I barely see two omegas kissing, you get what I mean?”

She shrugs. “Sure. It really isn’t that rare, tho. It’s weird how most people are aware of LGBT history, but don’t know there’s been omegas loving omegas forever. And alphas loving alphas. There’s a, what’s it called, a reading once a week? By and for people who love people of the same status.”

He pretends to be engrossed by unwrapping a lozenge. “Oh? Here in Siena?”

Loreta pipes up, hands buried in her khakis. “I present some poetry tonight.”

“That’s nice.” They’ve reached Harry and Quyen. Both their shirts are clinging to their torsos, droplets sliding down their necks. Waterfights are Louis’ thing, he thinks bitterly.

“Did I hear something about poetry?”, Harry asks and _of course_ he picked that up. There’s no hipster-y activity safe from Harry Styles, known knitter and collector of champagne corks. Louis helplessly stands by while they all agree to meet up in the evening. It’s not like he doesn’t want to go and listen to Loreta’s writing. It’s more like that time he accidentally went to a gay bar with his straight friends before he was out and was worried any of the men there would sense the gayness radiating from him, make him play a game of gay Truth Or Dare that would end up with him kissing his friend, and coincidentally first crush, Stan.

What if they play truth or dare at the reading? What if he has to kiss Harry? What if _someone else_ has to kiss Harry? He looks at Quyen from the corner of his eyes.

Harry touches Louis’ waist when they start walking again. He leans in close, whispering into his ear. “Why do you smell like you want to run away?”

Louis laughs nervously. He has a few seconds to think because they’re separated by someone with a trolley sprinting out of a supermarket. An employee shouts after them. “It’s just my throat, I think I should have a quiet one. You have fun at the reading.”

“Oh,” Harry doesn’t get close again. “Yeah, that’s - that makes sense.”

Louis kind of wants him to argue about it. He just wants someone to take the responsibility of making decisions off his shoulders – force him to go. To play a game of truth or drink, maybe. “Maybe these lozenges do their job and I can join you guys.” He doesn’t look into Harry’s eyes when he says it, keeps his gaze on the cobble stones.

“Yeah, maybe.” Harry sounds calm. “Isn’t garlic, like, good for health? There’s garlic everywhere here, maybe we can buy you some.”

“Babe, I’m not bloody eating raw garlic before I go out.”

Harry cackles. “What, are you expecting to kiss someone? Like anyone would want to do that. Disgusting.”

Louis hooks a finger in the belt loops on the back of Harry’s shorts. They are mostly dry, only wet at the top where is shirt is tucked in. “Cheeky.” He can see the moment Harry realises what he’s about to do, sees it in bend of his neck, the pliant arch of his spine. Delighted, he makes him wait. Then he yanks, watching Harry flounder with a satisfied smile. They slip, probably because Harry’s trainers are wet, maybe because neither of them is focussing on their footing. They don’t go down, managing to hoist each other up, but Louis’ heart feels like it tumbled to the ground anyway.

He’s got Harry’s hand gripping his arm, his shoulder digging into his chest and the swell of his hip against his tummy. Their eyes meet. “Not so fast, Cowboy,” Louis whispers. And Harry’s laugh is right up in his face, loud and obnoxious and the most amazing sound in the world.

Furaha yells for them to hurry up. They squeeze past someone with a bike and run after the others who have turned a corner into an alley. Harry’s hand slides down his arm and Louis almost wishes for it to grip his own. But it doesn’t. They turn into the alley and his laboured breath whooshes out of him. From the first floor all the way up to the fifth, ropes are suspended between the buildings, laundry dangling from them. They seem transparent in the yellow light, billowing like friendly ghosts. A cat sits on the front steps of a blue door. It’s a beautiful idyllic sight, fit for postcards, and Harry begs for Louis and the other three to line up to take one of his artsy pictures. Quyen tickles Louis just before the shutter goes off and he nearly slaps him for it.

But when they’re alone in their room before dinner, drained from a day on their feet, and Harry goes through his camera, he makes Louis look and zooms in. “I’m gonna print this.”

“Something to always remember your summer fling?” He doesn’t say it harshly, but Harry frowns at him anyway.

“I told you nothing happened.”

Louis blushes, steps back from him. “No, I know, I was just joking.”

“Good. I told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t want to sleep with him after I left.”

Harry lets the camera drop to his chest, the strap digging into the soft flesh of his neck. “No, I mean. I told you. I want you.”

Louis puts his palm to his solar plexus, to the spot where his heart dropped to. “I - I know, and I – I want-...” But he can’t say it aloud, he just can’t. The words are like thorns in his throat and, surely, if he speaks them, they’ll turn against him, against Harry, cutting them both.

Harry coughs and shuffles towards the bathroom, puts the camera on the clothing hanger on the wall before opening the door.

“Wait,” Louis calls, then rushes to drape himself over Harry’s back, melts against his spine. He places a kiss to his shoulder. The skin under his lips is warm and smooth, heated by the sun, moisturized by the dozens of lotions and peelings Harry uses every other day. The shirt beneath his hands, where he’s pressing them on Harry’s chest, is soft. All of him is soft, such a contrast to Louis’ edges and spikes, the pain in him sharped. He sinks into Harry’s curves and hopes his ribcage doesn’t open and swallows him whole, trapping him in his heart. He can’t say it quite yet, but he hopes he’s understood.

-*-

Quyen picks them up at eight. They’ve eaten at the hotel, but apparently there’s going to be free snacks at the reading. It’s not far away, not that anything is in this city. There’s a café near the university campus, tucked in between two taller buildings. A rainbow flag is waving above the door, the menu mostly consists of vegetarian and vegan options, and there are bowls of condoms, pads and scent blockers all around. It’s not that dissimilar to the gay bars he frequents.

There’s a large amount of People of Colour in the audience, someone with a cane, some with pronoun buttons, and several same status couples. The sheer amount of them makes it apparent how little he notices them in other spaces. Louis can’t stop biting his lips, preventing them from quivering, trying to keep his smile in check. Harry doesn’t try, Harry is beaming. They’re also wearing their little pronoun bracelet, introducing themselves to people with an offered hand. Quyen leads them around, says hello to some, and then goes to pull Loreta into a hug. She’s visibly nervous, holding onto her girlfriend with rigour. They assure her everything’s going to be fine, and then a drag queen calls for everyone to sit their asses down.

Together, Harry and Louis sit in the back, the stage visible if they crane their heads a bit. Turns out, most of the works are in Italian and they inevitably have to make up their opinions based on rhythm and flow. Loreta speaks in a language Louis doesn’t recognise, but a lot of the others seem enthusiastic and she gets high scores by the judges. Furaha pulls her into a kiss once she’s off stage.

Then, someone speaks in English. It’s six diary entries, documenting the person’s transition. Harry starts sniffling halfway through. Louis reaches out a hand but stops it at the edge of Harry’s chair, ghosting his pinky along their thigh, hesitant to touch them properly. Instead, he presses their ankles up against each other.

The last to present are two refugees, talking in French. They’re doing a dialogue off sorts, and Louis understands bits and pieces. Afterwards, when people come up to them and introduce themselves, he asks for translations. A woman with blue hair is kind enough to give them summaries of all works. She talks a lot, but Louis doesn’t mind, especially when Harry goes to talk to the trans person who presented the diary entries. It’s when he’s in the middle of a debate on 1980s voguing culture, that he realises he hasn’t felt anxious in an hour. Nervous, yes. Worried he was going to say something stupid? Absolutely. But these people have created such a calming atmosphere, he almost suspects there’s artificial pheromones in the air conditioning.

When he asks for the loo, he’s sent downstairs. There’s a single toilet, at least something that looks like it and feels like it, when he bangs his shins. There’s no lamp, just the streetlights shining through a warped window and a glow dripping down the stairs, so he has to pee in darkness and try and find the sink with searching fingers. He’s washing his hand, when someone bursts in. Even if it wasn’t for their smell, he’d recognise the footsteps. “Louis, is that you?” They seem sure enough, because they bump into his back and stay there, arms wrapping around his tummy.

He wishes he could see their smile in the reflection of the mirror, but he feels it at the back of his neck and that’s even better. “You found me.”

“Were you hiding?”, Harry mumbles. Their breath is damp on his skin.

Louis flicks water over his shoulder. “Nope. I’m actually really glad we’re here”

“Me too,” they say, dreamily. “We need to find spots like this at home. I know there’s the Pink Place, but they don’t do readings. I want to sing something. And I want you to recite your poems.”

Louis cringes, like every time someone mentions his secret hobby. It’s less of an insecurity about failing an alpha image and more of a worry too many people will find out he’s more of a hipster than he claims to be. “It’s all crap, you’ve heard it.”

“Not true. I like the one about being too young.”

“I know you do,” he pats their forearm.

Louis could swear the apples of their cheeks turn a familiar shade of pink, there’s a growing warmth on his nape. A sniffle. “You smell nice.”

His heart plummets right into his pants. It makes his dick twitch but turns his chest into a vacuum that’s stealing the oxygen from his lungs. His fingers grip the edge of the sink, porcelain cool against his wet palms. Now he’s glad it’s too dark to see expressions, his must be frozen in shock. Then he thinks _fuck you_ and forcefully softens his tensed muscles. “I’m happy”, he whispers. “I’m happy you –I’m happy we’ve found this place. And – and you’re lovely, you know? So lovely.”

Harry’s hold around his waist tightens. There’s a satisfied hum. “Thank you for being here. Like. In Italy.” Their lips are so hot on Louis’ skin, like a branding iron, like lava. His next thought, wish, _need_ makes his heart stutter again. He can hear laughter and bits and pieces of conversation from upstairs, someone stamping on the floorboards. Maybe Quyen's voice singing along to the music. “I want to try something,” he says. Loosens his hands from the sink, one finger after the other. He slides them over Harry’s, over their rings, their wrist. And then he turns around, makes sure to clutch Harry’s elbows, preventing them from stepping away. 

Now that they are face to face, he can observe the pink in their cheeks, a tiny sparkle of light in their eyes, their curls almost black in the darkness. Their breath, still damp but now puffing against Louis’ lips, smells like espresso. Their natural scent thickens as he exhales shakily and joins them at the hip. He is so, so nervous. There’s a part of him that thinks he might faint if he goes through with this, the other is convinced he won’t ever bring up the courage again. He licks his lips.

Harry’s gaze drops to them, their own parting. “Is this – are you...?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I think so.”

Louis’ teeth tingle. A sensation he normally only experiences during his ruts, a sensation he’d never expected, and it causes him to stagger, hold onto Harry, close his eyes. “Can you – please –”

Harry makes a low sound, puts a gentle finger beneath Louis’ chin, tilts it up and closes the distance between them. It’s just a gentle peck, a slid of their lips, a wisp of a kiss. But it frees something within Louis, something that’s simultaneously in his mind and tucked in his heart. It bursts through his veins, floods his body, expands in a tingle and then he’s giggling, laughing into the side of Harry’s neck and clinging on to them. “I swear I’m not drunk,” he promises. “I’m just – I feel incredible. Thank God I didn’t stay in bed and mope.”

Harry laughs too, light and bubbly, and sweeps a hand through Louis’ hair. “I’m very glad about that, too. And I didn’t even have to reveal the ace up my sleeves.”

“Oho,” Louis says, nuzzling them. Maybe spreading his scent a little. “And what might that be?”

“It’s a secret, obviously. Patience.”

When they emerge from the stairs, not holding hands but digging fingers into each other’s hips, he could swear they get a few pleased grins.

-*-

Another day and then they’re leaving Siena at 7pm. Despites Quyen’s protests, they’ve decided to visit Rome. It’s five hours of travel, intercepted by several changes and Harry misplacing his camera, rushing across crowded platforms to catch their next train and sitting in the wrong seats. They eat shitty sandwiches that taste like rubber and withered lettuce; and a family with a screaming baby seems to take the exact same route, haunting them. In Rome, they can’t find the Airbnb they rented. Louis is convinced he’s typed the correct address into Google maps, but they end up at a famous fountain that may look pretty – all white statues lit by blue headlights – but is apparently an hour away from where they should be. And they don’t think of buying tickets for a bus or calling a cab, instead walking all the way along deserted parks and sleezy apartment blocks.

“I need a break,” he wheezes when the streets gradually ascend. He collapses against a wall, the rough plaster scratching up his arm. “I hate my life.”

Harry puts his backpack on the pavement and plops down on it, his legs outstretched. “I don’t understand why we aren’t there yet. We should be there. I’m gonna cry.”

They’re both on the verge of tears, it’s prominent in their voices and in their scents. It’s the middle of the night and he’s hungry, every cell hurts, his thighs threaten to give out. He stares at the screen of his phone. “Should be fifteen minutes away.”

“Okay,” Harry groans and doesn’t get up.

They need another ten minutes before they’re ready to keep going. And then, of course, it does take longer. The three people they ask for help have never heard of the place, not even the street. Louis feels delirious when they finally detect a sign that fits. There’s a bunch of pubs lined at the seam of the footpath, but neither of them thinks any of it. Until they’re standing in front of one of those pubs and Google map tells them they’ve arrived at their destination.

There is grime on the façade, and it smells of rotten wood. Newspapers are glued on the windows. It’s too dark to decipher the words, but the pictures are black and white, faded from the sun.

Louis actually blinks back tears. “Fucking shit hell. Are we wrong again? I’m ready to find the nearest hotel and pay any price for a real bed. This is the worst moment of my life.”

Just when Harry is reading through the confirmation email to check whether something went wrong, there’s a sound. Some kind of whisper. Light flickers on, eerily blue light that pulsates through the cracks in the windows. Something moves behind the newspapers, a shadow. It’s either the pressure on Louis’ ears, or it really does go spookily quiet. His boots are stuck to the ground, frozen, despite the mild warmth of the night. Another sound. Then a figure steps out. At first, he only notices the height. Then braids in a grey beard. Then the whale noises seeping out the door. This is either God welcoming them to heaven or a wizard about to cast a curse. “Room?”

“Uh, yes, uhm,” Harry stutters. “Yes, we’ve booked a flat? Here? Sorry, we’re late, but it said check-in is twenty-four seven, so. Uhm. Is this correct?”

The man nods. He's wearing a leather jacket that’s missing its sleeves. “You have to wait.”

“Uhm, I’m not sure –…"

“Inside, inside.”

And the next minute they’re sitting on creaking chairs, in the middle of chaos. There are towers of letters on the floor, on the tables, on the bar. Most of them aren’t opened. Empty bottle line the walls, not one drop of alcohol in the entire place. But lots of peanuts. In cans and in bags and strewn over every surface. They politely decline when the man offers them some. He sits in front of them and openly watches their faces that must surely display their worry. Louis’ tongue feels tied. He forgot how to make small talk. They listen to the whale noises. Harry squeezes his backpack like a lifebelt.

“How... what are we waiting for, exactly?”, Louis asks. Shrinks under the unblinking stare the man scrutinizes him with.

“My _nipote_. Nephew.” Then he says something about keys.

The only reason Louis isn’t up and running is because Harry looks so pale he might pass out, and because the man is a beta. If he’d try and overpower them, they’d still have their alpha voices. Subtly, he intensifies his scent. The man might not pick up on it as fast as alphas and omegas, but his subconscious will hopefully keep him from doing anything unpredictable.

They wait for thirty minutes. The whale songs morph into yoga instructions and flutes. Louis’ sweaty shirt starts getting uncomfortable in a cool draught that seems to waft in from a dark corridor. He contemplates putting on his jumper, when a woman comes running through the door. Her hair must have been in a bun before and is now a mess atop her hair. “Sorry, sorry,” she says without any hints of an accent. “I was in another part of -, ah, welcome. Hi! I hope you didn’t have to wait too long. Will you follow me? The flat is a few blocks down.”

She gives the man a quick kiss to the cheek and the ushers them outside. “Follow me, follow me. I am so sorry. How was your trip? Did you see the sunset today? Very beautiful.”

They barely keep up with her fast pace, not a chance to exchange looks or ask where they’re going. She pushes her body against the front entrance of a three-storey building, opening the door one screeching centimetre at a time, and leads them up a dim stairway. “I would not recommend usage of the elevator,” she says. “It is very old and dangerous.”

“Noted,” Harry rasps. He clutches the banister of the stairs, stumbling slightly. Louis puts a hand on his hip, wants to be prepared if he doubles over.

“This is your apartment,” the woman cheers and points to a door on the top floor. “I will be out until the morning, but as soon as it’s seven in the morning you can come knock for anything you need. Everything is in the cupboards. Here’s two keys. I apologise again, but I need to hurry. I hope you will be happy here.”

And she’s gone again, her steps echoing in the hallway.

“What the actual fuck,” Louis sobs and lets them in, locking the door when they’re inside. He doesn’t want to take any risks.

Harry has his face against a wall, his shoulders shaking. “I thought we were going to get murdered.”

“This is the second time I thought we’d die,” Louis agrees.

“This is far worse than the first time. That train would’ve been fast. That man seemed like he’d dip us in acid,” Harry says. He props himself on Louis when they walk further into the flat. There’s a small kitchen, a small bathroom and a small room with two small beds. But it smells clean and the electricity works, which is more than expected. They wash themselves sloppily, Louis too stunned to feel weird about doing it at the same time, standing at the sink and wiping themselves down with flannels. They don’t bother with shirts. Harry’s in his silky pants and Louis in his boxers, but he’s too tired to think about that, wants to hurry up and choose their beds.

Louis is just about to fall asleep, when he sees a red dot on the pillow. He screams. Harry is up in an instant, screaming with him. “WHAT?? WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

“BEDBUGS!!” Louis screeches. “FUCK!”

His feels like he is shedding scales. He wishes he could change into another skin, get rid of the phantom scuttles on this one. His wrists won’t stop flailing until he’s scanned his whole body, demanding Harry to check the spots he can’t reach. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”

All of a sudden, Harry hugs him from behind and immobilises his arms in the process. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, right into Louis’ ear. “You’re okay, they’re not on you.” His tone is normal, not laced with a rumble or a command, but it calms Louis, nevertheless.

He lets himself go lax, only upright because he’s held. “I will have nightmares about this.”

“I’m sorry, Honey.” Harry’s nose is nuzzling where Louis’ neck meets his shoulder and the cold tip of it tickles him, causing a shiver. His bum is right against Harry’s crotch and the clothes they are wearing cover nothing. That’s Harry’s dick nestled in his crack and it’s soft but it’s still there, and it feels _good_. Louis’ heart is not catching a single break.

“I need to -,” he chokes out, “I need to lie down.”

He’s pushed into Harry’s bed, not before they’ve checked it for bugs, and curls up into a ball. Harry snuggles up, just like that. He is as warm as ever, radiating comfort like only few other people in Louis’ life can. It gets steamy under the blanket, but he doesn’t mind. A shower awaits him in the morning, for now he has this.

Harry’s crotch comes in contact with Louis’ arse again. This time, he’s at least a little hard. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, securing Harry’s arm around his chest and intertwining their hands. “This’s okay. I’m thankful it’s you, you know, being here with me. Don’t think there’s anyone else I want to have near death experiences with.”

The giggle on the back of his head sends another series of shivers to his spine. “Likewise.”

His eyes close. There are no noises from outside, the flat so secluded there’s barely anyone on the streets. It’s so different from home, and yet so familiar. They used to do this when they were younger, cuddling up during sleepovers, sharing beds. Until their friends told them it was weird, of course. Two alphas soft with each other. Louis misses the person he was, the one that said fuck them all and planted smooches on his friends’ cheeks. The one who hadn’t internalised all this fear.

“When you claimed the room, uhm, the bar, earlier with the man,” Harry whispers and drags him out of his thoughts. “I was... less scared. Made me feel safe.”

It’s as if he’d read his mind, knew exactly what to say. “Yeah?”

“And a little horny.”

Louis smiles to himself and pivots his bum. “Like you are right now?”

Harry groans. “Babe-”

“Go to sleep,” he pats his wrist. “Talk in the morning.”

Harry makes another sound, a mix of a hum and a whimper. “Nighty.”

-*-

He wakes up in the dark, dropping from a nightmare about giant red monsters that chase him into the sea where tiny whales hiss insults at him. His mind must’ve conjured up an ocean because he’s positively swimming in sweat, the sheets damp, his hair greasy. He can’t keep his eyes open but sees Harry’s face up close through the blink of his lashes. His lips are parted and puffy. Louis’ fingers lie against his chest and he traces them up his neck. The last thing he feels before he falls asleep again is a nuzzle against his cheek.

-*-

He should’ve predicted this. Should’ve foreseen it and made some precautions, a pillow between them, maybe. Not that it would’ve withstand the snaps of Harry’s hips. He’s heavy atop of Louis, full weight preventing air from getting into his lungs. His naked front is hot on Louis’ back, his cock solid on the back of his thigh, his mouth wet on his neck. And Louis is hard, too, pulsating with it. He inhales weakly. “Harry. Harry, love, wake up.”

Harry awakes with a low moan. For a second he stills, his breathing speeding up, then he flinches away. It feels like a déjà vu when their eyes meet, glazed over, pupils blown. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-” Harry rubs a hand down his face. “You smell so -. And I was still horny from last night, uhm, and your body, I -. Fuck.”

Louis rolls onto his side and strokes a hand over Harry’s waist. “It’s okay. We’re even, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’m-”

“Darling, shut up.” He curls his thumb into Harry’s soft skin. “It felt good.”

He sounds casual, but his mind is spinning. Harry doesn’t look like he believes him, creases in his forehead. With one last plea to the universe for this to end good, Louis takes Harry’s hand and puts it low on his own stomach. “Can’t you smell me?”

Harry’s breath hitches. It fucking _hitches_. His fingers shake where they dip below the waist of Louis’ boxers. “You want me?”

Louis can’t stand it anymore. “ _Of course_ ,” he says, his throat closing up. And then he kisses him. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Harry’s lips are incredibly plush, swollen from the night and from the way he has been licking at Louis’ neck. He licks into Louis’ mouth now, too. Little noises escape him while he does it, and when Louis’ eyes blink open, he sees the expression on his face, twisted with pleasure.

The palm he has on Harry’s waist wanders up, roams over the expanse of his back, into the curls at his nape, pulls on them. Once again, Louis feels like his limbs are disconnected from his torso, feels like he is floating. There’s a lightness to his body, as if he was underwater. Drowning in his desire. He’s pulled back to earth with a shock as soon as Harry’s hand sinks lower and comes into contact with his cock. They both moan. “Please, Louis, can I -”

“Wait, wait.” Harry’s fingers pause. Louis doesn’t let him pull away, grips his neck. “You need to go slow, okay? I’m -. I’m a little nervous.”

Harry nods, his lashes swoop. “We can stop.”

Louis kisses him again and sighs into his mouth. “No. I want this. Touch me, Baby.”

Harry does. His hand feels around Louis’ cock, wrapping around it agonisingly careful. Their sleep sweat makes the glide almost pleasant, but he needs it to be wetter, murmurs as much into the space between them. Harry pulls out his hand, folds back the duvet, then licks his palm.

“Fuck,” Louis whines and throws his head back when his cock is cradled again. “Fuck, that’s perfect.”

He can’t believe this is happening. Before this trip he’d have never allow himself to be in this situation, would’ve rather slept on the floor than in the same bed with his alpha best friend. Now he wants this moment to last for hours. The taste of Harry is forever embedded onto his tongue, their mixed scents already clinging to his memory, his mind dizzy with sensations.

Harry settles atop of him when Louis draws him in with a thigh around his hip. He tightens it just as Harry flicks his wrist and drags his thumb across the head of Louis’ dick. “Gonna make me come so fast,” he says, writhing on the mattress.

“Can I see? Lou, can I see, please,” Harry leans up on one hand, looks down at Louis’ crotch. Louis pushes his boxers down, groans when it means he’s losing pressure on his cock. But Harry goes right back to it, after licking his palm again, tongue dipping between his fingers. He must be tasting Louis’ pre-come, the salt of it. His eyes are stormy. “I want you in me.”

“Shit,” Louis curses, his hips fucking up.

Harry stays on his knees, his eyes roaming over Louis’ body. “You’re so gorgeous, so beautiful. So handsome. I want you to-,” he breaks off.

“What?” Louis asks, getting closer, his hand clutching onto Harry’s arm. “Tell me.”

Harry bites his lip, looks at the movements of his own hand. His mouth falls open. “Want you to fuck my mouth and use me, I – God. Your knot, I want your knot, Louis.”

It won’t pop without something properly surrounding him, but his cock throbs anyway, and Harry squeezes it, moaning as loud as Louis is. His orgasm completely wrecks him, his back arching and his heart hammering against his ribs. His thighs clam up around Harry’s sides, hauling him in. He parts his lips in a demand and Harry complies, biting down at them, nudging his tongue with his own. He doesn’t stop wanking Louis, still massaging the base of his cock as if he’s waiting for his knot. Then he starts kissing down Louis’ chest, licking over his stomach and into the curves of his waist, cleaning him up, feeding on his come.

“Like my taste, Darling?”, Louis murmurs. He’s drifting again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says and it sounds like a cry. His breath is puffing against Louis’ abdomen. “Can I- can I please have more?”

Louis is panting. There’s still come dribbling from his cock. He isn’t sure if he’s ready to see Harry sucking him down yet. “How about you let me get you off, hmm?”

Harry seems disappointed but straightens up, kissing him again and not loosening his grip. Louis knows the flavour of his own come but this is different. This is it combined with Harry’s spit, with his little gasps. He curls his hand around his cock. It’s so big, pulsing under his fingers. “So needy.”

“Needy for you.” Harry begins thrusting, collapsing and trapping his cock and the hand Louis has around it between their tummies. He’s gnawing so hard on his bottom lip, he’s leaving little white dents; sweat has darkened his hairline, the green in his eyes is barely visible.

“Look at you,” Louis says, trying not to miss a second. “To think I could’ve had this earlier if I hadn’t been... but you waited, didn’t you? For me?”

“Waited for you.” Maybe he’s simply repeating words, but his expression is open and honest, his cheeks pink, flush spreading down his neck. His pulse is visible under his golden skin.

Louis slows his jerks, but tightens the trap of his fingers, encouraging Harry to shove into them. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he confesses quietly. “I wish I had known that. I’m gonna be so good to you, Darling, I promise. Make up for all the hurt. Make you feel like my best -.” He stops himself before using the wrong word. “You’re my favourite.”

“Louis,” Harry whimpers and pushes his nose into Louis’ jaw, taking audible breaths. There’s drool dripping down Louis’ neck, come cooling on his belly, another cock pushing against his softening one. He feels euphoric.

“You scenting me, Baby? Smell how much I love having you like this?”

The answering nods almost give them concussions, Harry’s chin digging into his shoulder, their brows touching. Louis clutches Harry curls in his free hand and tugs at them, guides him. “Go on, you can bite me a little. Mark me as yours, Pup.”

Harry sobs when he comes, his whines breaking off as his teeth dig into Louis’ skin. It hurts, his body immediately alert and prepared to thrash, but it also brings a deep satisfaction with it, floods him with heat. He cards through Harry’s hair, through the knots at the back. “There you go, so sweet.” His finger hooks into the clasp of Harry’s necklace, keeping him close.

-*-

Louis takes a shower, long and scorching, and when he comes back, Harry’s on the floor, propped up by the bed, knees to his chest, curls in disarray and his face in his palms. Next to his feet is the book by Hosseini he’s been reading. “That much of a sad ending?”, Louis comments and slides next to him, settling on his arse. His skin sizzles next to Harry’s cool shoulder. He picks up the book and drags his thumb along a corner, the pages rough.

A hand stills his fingers, raising them up. Harry nuzzles into Louis’ knuckles and breathes a little sound into his palm, then places Louis’ hand on his neck. His eyes are shiny, lashes clumped. “You’re my favourite, too, you know that?”

-*-

The colosseum is decidedly smaller than anticipated. Like the leaning tower of Pisa, the pictures and books had promised much more. They have to wait for ages to get in and then realise they should’ve invested in a guided tour because there’s not much to learn from staring at crumbling stones, roped off stairs and a big hole in the ground. Same goes for the Forum Romanum. It’s just a bunch of really high columns. Luckily, they are manage to listen in to a woman telling a group of tourists about some of the temples. That’s also how they figure out there’s a museum that gives a little more information on the history. For once, Harry is not telling Louis about the statues and reconstructions they find inside: He’s truly not an expert in classics. But he’s drinking everything in with as much elation as usual.

“Look at the details,” he exclaims every five minutes, bend over a glass cabinet or the model of a basilica or a faded relief. “I wish I knew who all these people were.”

At the sight of two marble wings, outstretched and missing a body, he sighs. “So beautiful.”

Louis covers his smile with the collar of his shirt. “C’mon, give me your camera and stand in front of ‘em. I’ll take a picture.”

Harry has to crouch for the perspective to work and he does so without complaining but demands to see the picture at once. He sidles up and puts his hand around Louis', pulling it up, instead of taking the camera himself. “The lighting is off,” he complains, obviously not satisfied with the lack of artistry.

“I think you look cute,” Louis says just to elicit a fizzle of his scent. He gets that and the imprint of a smile against his temple. The muscles in his back tighten slightly so he forces them to relax, exhales with a huff.

“Why, thank you.” Harry strokes a thumb over Louis’ knuckles. “Now gimme back my camera, before you break it.”

It is the perfect chance for Louis to tease him and maybe it was on purpose; a permission to fall into a familiar dynamic. He has a hard time consoling the fears of being observed and punished for his actions with the recollection of Harry’s touches. Whenever he remembers, feels the kiss of Harry’s wet mouth on his body, and looks at him, it only takes a second for him to check if anyone notices the way his lips part, his heartrate quickens, and his scent intensifies. As an alpha, he has learned to keep himself in check. Not just his pheromones, but his demeanour, the high lilt of his voice. Harry makes him forget all the restraints he put on himself. But then, of course, as soon as the world materialises again, they come back even stronger.

They’re taking a double-deck bus around the city, one that looks as red as the ones in London and listen to the tinny voice of a recorded tour when Harry throws an arm around Louis’ shoulders. It’s something they did a week ago, as friends, a gesture that’s easily interpreted as casual, but Louis’ spine goes rigid. “Don’t, I-”

“Okay,” Harry says easily and complies. “Do you want to un-claw your hand, then?”

Louis swallows a shriek when he sees that he indeed has his nails digging into Harry’s thigh, right where his white shorts end. “Sorry, I’m sorry. This stuff is, you now, it’s not that I don’t want to touch you, but this stuff makes me so, so nervous.” He’s rushing it out, all in one breath, low, careful not to let the people a couple seats back hear them.

On a hot day like this, most tourists sit on the lower level, hiding in the shade. But they wanted the true experience, a good view and the chance to tug on some tree branches. They have to avoid a bunch of them now as they’re turning into a new avenue. Harry ducks his head. “I understand. I’ve just had longer to, uhm, to get used to it, I guess. I’d never hold it against you. Take your time, yeah?”

Louis nods. He’d love some time for himself to clear his head, figure out what he wants from this, from himself, from Harry. But they have three more cities to go and a bed to share until they get hold of the woman that lead them away from the pub. They had tried looking for her or the man this morning but stood in front of a locked door and newspapers fluttering in the wind. “Do you think last night was a shared hallucination?”, he asks and Harry accepts the change in topic without a beat of hesitation.

He’s indulging Louis the rest of the day; goes along with his banter, offers him the last sip of water from the bottle, lets himself be manoeuvred in front of a clock in the middle of a park or a graffito of the Cinderella mice so Louis can photograph him. He keeps voicing concern for his camera, but poses nevertheless. When evening approaches and the air cools, he’s even stopped asking to see every picture the second it was taken.

It’s a nice sort of change, to be the one to demand for him to stand still and frame him. It makes him feel like the observer, instead of the observed. And it keeps Harry and him at a distance, separated by the lens, yet inevitably connected, photos documenting this day forever. If anything, he wants to look back at a sweaty Harry in front of a line of waiting people and remember how they sprinted across a park to get to the museum on time, hands brushing, breathless with exertion and laughter.

On their way back, it’s almost dark, the sky purple, lavender in the corners. It’s now that most people get out on the streets and they pass a few parties but are too knackered to investigate. They stop by a petrol station and buy a few essentials – cereal, milk, tea and biscuits. For anything extravagant, they’ll have to find a grocery store tomorrow. They also check the pub for the wizard or the woman again but have no luck. There’s also no reply to the mail they sent about new bedding, but they find some in a commode in the hallway of the flat, anyway. Along with some suspicious looking packages they choose not to open. 

Once Louis’ bed is freshly made, they stare at it. “You know...,” he begins. “I think the bed creaks. It’s really fragile, I think.”

Harry hums. “It’s probably very dangerous to sleep in.”

“Imagine if it breaks down in the middle of the night.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

They snuggle up in Harry’s bed.

-*-

The next day, he wakes up with Harry rutting against him again. It leads to hand jobs in bed and then some more after they’ve eaten breakfast and taken a shower together. Even though having dined in restaurants and eaten homemade food by actual Italian people for the last two weeks was glorious, it feels nice to eat bacon and soupy beans on toast. Very domestic, which Louis works hard on not freaking out about. He melts back into Harry’s embrace when they come up behind him as he’s washing the dishes, he tilts his head for them to kiss the taste of coffee from his mouth, he lets them snog him against the sink, window open and curtains framing the view of the open street. 

When they get dressed, he buttons up Harry’s blouse. When they slide blingy hoops through the holes in their lobes, he tucks a curl behind their ears. On the dark staircase, next to the creaky lift that looks like it might crash any moment, he fumbles for Harry’s hand, worried either of them is going to brain themselves. The pendant of their bracelet digs into his palms, surely leaving an imprint. They actually do trip over the last steps, eyes hardly adjusting to the dim light. When they burst into shocked laughter, gripping each other and collapsing against the tiled wall, his lips come to rest on their neck.

“I’ve had more deathly experiences in Italy than at home,” Harry wheezes, their hands shaky on Louis chest. “This country wants to scare us the hell away.”

It rattles him, that simple comment. Maybe because, deep down, he fears it’s true. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, forehead sinking onto their shoulder and smothers his thoughts in Harry’s scent. This is what matters. The rush of need when they are close to each other, the need to have them close, the need to touch.

Now that he’s kissed Harry, now that he’s had them come all over themselves, now that he knows what they smell like when they are desperate for him, he can’t stop wanting it. The persistent whispers in the back of his mind and the tingles in the tips of his fingers have turned into constant chants and full on shivers when they’re close to each other. And even though he’s scared people will notice and he’s careful about his movements when they are in public, he finds his gaze stuck to Harry’s mouth or his hand resting on the dips and curves of their glorious body or his face drifting towards theirs. He wants and he _needs._

“Is it -,” he begins, wondering if it’s always like this, for Harry, for others, for alphas. If, when the spark caught, a whole fire ignites. _Are you feeling this, too? Is the tremble in your hands the same as mine?_ “That raspberry sure looks like something else,” he says instead and nods his chin at a painting. It’s giant, at least two metres in diameter, but it’s blurry, blushed and wet like the inside of a mouth.

Harry nips at their lips, smirking. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, sure. You don’t have any associations when you look at that pink hole, huh?”

Harry gasps, scandalised, and swats Louis’ shoulder. “Get your mind out the gutter! We’re in public!”

They _are_. And Louis is fucking terrified people will find out, see it, smell it, hurt them for it. With his omega boyfriends, Louis used to walk the streets hand in hand, fully knowing others might give them looks but never afraid of confrontation. He used to struggle more with feeling fetishized as a mindless animal fucking a helpless victim and maybe that’s why he feels dirty, like a predator that needs to be contained when his hand rests on Harry’s back and his fingers brush their neck, a gesture of greed, of belonging. But Harry nudges his knuckles with the corner of their jaw and smiles. “Let’s find dick shaped stuff.”

The gallery, one that Loreta recommended, is less of a cube in the middle of a pretentious neighbourhood, and more of a wrecked warehouse at the edge of the city. Their steps echo in the open space, sand and shards of glass and sawdust crunching beneath their shoes. Huge fans are placed in every corner, cool air billowing pieces of fabric that hang from pipes in the ceiling, dispersing a faint fragrance of bananas. Louis pretends that very fragrance is the reason for the saliva gathering under his tongue, at least until Harry scratches their neck and releases a wave of their scent that hits Louis like a brick. It shouldn’t make him want to soak it up, swim in it, wanting it to stick to his hair, to his clothes. It shouldn’t make him want to _mark_ and _be_ marked.

So he annoys Harry – makes obnoxious comments on the pieces, pretends to reach out to touch the frames, fake coughs and sniffles, puts his flute of orange juice they’ve been given at the entrance, on the floor and asks Harry for their opinion on this game changing, self-referential work of art. He just wants them to exaggerate exasperation and flick the side of his head – but unfortunately, they have the same kind of humour and end up milking out the drama until they start giggling. “I’d say they did an impressive job with this work,” Harry says, hands clasped behind their back. “It’s filled up right to the middle, asking important life questions such as whether the glass if half empty or half full. Of course, the colour yellow is associated with happiness, which would imply the latter. Then again, in many cultures, yellow stands for jealousy. Which would bring an entirely different dynamic to the piece.”

“And what dynamic would that be?”, Louis asks, somehow genuinely fascinated by Harry’s thoughts.

“This is about consuming someone like food, like liquid. Incorporating them.” They look at the flute, a smile flickering on their lips. They know exactly what they’re doing.

If he’d concentrated less on their pink mouth, then maybe he’d care more about the two people staring over at them, gossiping. As it is, he strokes a finger down Harry’s forearm. “So, it’s possessive?”

“Absolutely,” they raise a mocking brow at him. “But it’s hidden behind layers. It seems casual, like someone forgot it on their way out. It demands attention, though. Begs to be noticed.”

Louis feels his cheeks heating up. He doesn’t usually blush, prides himself on being unreadable. Either he has been lying to himself or Harry has learned to look right through him. He tries and fails to wipe the smile from his face. “You should write an essay about this.”

Harry laughs and it releases more of their scent, pure joy that makes Louis’ pulse flutter. He was prepared for the sexual craving, to struggle to refrain from touching them. But he didn’t expect for his jumbled feelings to unfurl and grow in him like vines, curl around his heart and dig their thorns into the vulnerable muscle. It hurts to be so close to Harry, tightens the vines, he’s bleeding out into the open for everyone to see.

He bends down and picks up the glass. “Really, Haz. You’re so good at this shit. It really was meant to be your course of studies.”

Before he can sip from the juice, Harry snags it out of his grasp and gulps it down. The line of their throat begs for Louis’ teeth. “There - consumable art. We’ve broken the system.” They suck on their lips, smacking them.

It’s Louis’ time to laugh, he shakes his head, completely endeared. And a little horny. Warmth is gathering in his abdomen and he thinks of his spit that must’ve been in the juice and is now inside Harry and thinks himself silly for playing into their analysis. He lets them take the lead on walking around the warehouse and then back into the centre of the city, still embarrassingly enraptured. It distracts him enough, he doesn’t even argue about their choice of lunch: stuffed artichoke. It’s such a distinctive flavour and yet weirdly tasteless if it wasn’t for the garlic and the white wine – which is exactly what he tastes on Harry’s tongue when they’re on the staircase of their airbnb, licking the olive oil from each other's lips.

He groans and jams the key into the lock, turning it roughly. “Couldn’t even wait till we’re inside.”

“Can’t wait,” Harry gasps, stumbling after him through the door, scrambling to lift his shirt. “Wanna feel you.”

He’s completely wrecked from it, from just a bit of kissing and teasing, pried open in the dark of the hallway. He’s flipped around and pushed against the handle, the blunt of it digging into the knobs of his spine, but he’s too busy grinding against Harry to care.

“You can - take whatever you want.” His throat hurts, it _hurts_ from the lack of oxygen and the love he’s trying to suppress and the words he’s afraid to speak.

Harry gasps again, low and raspy. Their fingers dance over Louis’ lower back, again and again, edging towards the waistband of his shirt. “Don’t – don’t say that, Louis. I want everything.”

Louis sucks their bottom lip into his mouth, bites down on it. “Take it, Darling.”

He does not expect Harry to sink to their knees, not even taking their trainers off, just shuffling close, as close as possible and opening his fly with fire in their eyes. They seem to be so far away, suddenly, or perhaps it’s simply Louis who’s starting to float, arms useless at his sides. He can hear dulled voices, clatter from the flat below them, a dishwasher rumbling. There’s still the trace of garlic on his teeth. If the neighbours would listen, if someone would walk up the staircase, they’d hear his shaky breathing. He’s in Rome and he’s about to get his cock sucked by his best friend.

“I want your knot,” Harry breathes onto his boxers. “I want your knot in my mouth right now.”

Louis shivers, shivers because it should feel wrong, but he _wants_ it, wants it so badly he’s crying out. He hears himself beg and bites down on his fist, prevents more pleas from escaping his dizzy mind. All he can think of is Harry’s warm mouth, the softness of it, and then he gets it, wet on the head of his cock. He throbs in Harry’s hand, growing harder.

It’s an overwhelming visual and he wants to close his eyes and become one with the sun burning on his face, but he tells himself to watch and remember. His blood is thrumming when he follows the sharp outline of Harry’s cheekbones as they lick the pre-come off his slit, flushed and brows drawn. A curl spills onto their forehead, tangling in their lashes, but their right hand is gripping the base of Louis’ cock, thumbing it, and their left hand is cupping their own crotch. “Are you touching yourself because you’re on your knees for me?” He asks and tucks the curl behind their ear. “Does that get you off?”

“So much,” Harry pants, breath so hot on his wet cock. “Love your taste, wanted it, forever.” They lick up his shaft, eyes locked to his, and swallow visibly.

“You want to consume me, is that it?” He laughs, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment, but fails miserably. “Feel me inside you?”

Harry moans and sinks down on him, ever so slowly, hollowing their cheeks. Louis’ knuckles fly up to his teeth again, muffling his groan. He can’t stop his hips from snapping forward once, his other hand gripping Harry’s hair. The air is becoming stifling, a cocoon of heat around his skin, seeping into his pores. Sweat gathers on his cupid’s bow, on the back of his knees, on the swell of his bum. He must taste musky and intense from the exertion of the day, but Harry seems to love it, makes tiny noises as they take him deeper, hand dipping into their own shorts, not even bothering to zip them open.

They turn very, very still when their lips reach the base of Louis’ dick where his knot is already beginning to swell. Their shoulders tremble. “Baby, don’t come,” he gasps, not because he wants to make them wait but because he’s worried they’ll mess up their pants. But Harry’s eyes widen and glaze over, and they go slack, head tilting back.

Louis cards through the fine hairs on their temple. “If you come, you’ll ruin your lovely pants.”

Again, it evokes a reaction he doesn’t expect. Harry fucks into their own palm and takes more cock into their mouth, lips stretching. “Fuck, you _want_ that.” His pubes must be tickling their nose, their controlled breathing damp on his skin. The velvet of their throat pulsates around him.

“You want everyone to see how good you can make me feel, how good that made _you_ feel. So needy,” he says and doesn’t know where it’s coming from, doesn’t know why he suddenly knows exactly what to say. “Fuck your own fist like you want to.”

Harry obeys without hesitation, even though it must be a rough drag. They’re still looking up at him, trust reflecting in their blown pupils. Their biceps bulge with their movements, golden skin glimmering in the light. He wants to squeeze them, feel their strength, hold them close and make them tremble. Louis traces the cut of their jaw, wipes the drool from the corners of their lips. “So beautiful.”

A spark of heat shoots down his thigh and he loses control for a split second, thrusting forward harshly. “Sorry, sorry-” But Harry whines, jerks off faster. He’s going to pass out. “Want me to – babe, do you want me to fuck your mouth a little?”

He can’t believe he’s saying these things, talking openly about his desire for another alpha, but he doesn’t care about that anymore, only cares about the tight coil in his belly and the dreamy look in Harry’s eyes. “If yes, pinch my thigh.”

Harry pinches him, hard. And then their hand is immediately back on their cock, slick sounds filling his ears. Something of a gasp and a giggle leaves him, then Louis gently cups Harry’s jaw and pulls out. “You pinch me again, when you want me to stop, yeah?”

He’s blinded by the answering smile. “I won’t want you to stop. Be – be rough, yeah? Please?”

There’re no words for the surge of emotions inside him, so he nods jerkily. Harry kisses his knuckles, then tilts their head. Their tongue lolls out and Louis rubs his cock all over it, coating it in spit, spreading his taste and smell. He wants them to be drenched in him. Their lips are puffy and swollen and so, so good wrapped around him. Sweat and product have made their hair sticky, but Louis’ grip in it is secure and steady as he feeds them his dick. “There we go, taking it so well.”

Once he sees Harry adjusting his breathing, he starts thrusting properly, little nudges of his hips. Every now and then he keeps himself from whimpering or cursing too loudly, his thoughts muddled, skipping between what he sees and what they would be able to do in a bed, so much space for him to make Harry writhe and moan, press them down. He bites his lip, when he imagines fucking them, fucking another alpha, and burying himself in their heat. How he’d have to be attentive, gentle, fingering them thoroughly. “God, Harry, I – you're so good, the best, want you like this all the time.”

Harry’s eyes water. He doesn’t know if it’s his words or the girth of his cock, but he catches a single tear and licks it from his thumb. “So sweet.”

His knot throbs and it makes him push deeper, Harry’s lip gliding down to his base again. He inhales greedily and their scent fills his lungs. He can smell his own arousal, his own need, but Harry’s is even worse, they’re practically dripping with it, drenching the room with their eagerness, probably spilling pre-come onto the floor. He has the urge to go faster, to fill them up and make it difficult to breathe, but he keeps his rhythm steady and careful. “Sweet alpha on their knees for me, making me feel so good, – shit, Pup, I’m gonna come, you need to pull off -”

Harry makes a frustrated sound and swallows around the head of his cock, stripping their own at a brutal pace. They follow when Louis tries to pull out, lips locking around his knot. As soon as Louis understands, he’s coming. His spine curls, his fingers gripping the back of Harry’s head and holding them in place. After the first few seconds of heat have passed, his body melts, his back sliding down the door a bit. His arms grow heavy and his hand lowers. Only when Harry chokes and shivers, does he realise he’s covering their neck, thumb right where a bonding mark belongs. His mouth opens, to apologise, to soften his actions, but then Harry sinks down even further, impossibly so, and whines like they’re coming.

And they _are_. All over themselves and into their pants, messy and rocking back and forth because they can’t help themselves. Their throat works around Louis’ come, swallowing it greedily. Louis sinks his teeth into his lip. “Jesus, you’re so good.”

He shudders in another wave of heat, another spurt of come that Harry has to swallow because his _knot_ is inside their _mouth_. If he won’t sit soon, his knees will give out and now that he’s aware of the wobble in them, he thinks of Harry’s, how their shins must hurt from being down there for so long, but they still don’t make a move, eyes closed and panting into his pubes. “Baby,” he slurs, taps their nose. “You need to breathe, don’t have to – fuck, how are you so -, so...”

It’s another minute before Harry sits up, hand still around Louis’ cock, milking his knot, catching ropes of come. “So…?” A smile flickers over their sore lips, so bright it makes Louis’ mouth twitch into a grin of his own.

“Overwhelming. Intense. I dunno, I think my brain stopped working.”

A deep line appears between their brows. “Too overwhelming?”

“No, no,” he’s quick to assure, dares to squeeze his hand at the nape of their neck. The gesture, rude in any other circumstance, makes them bow their head. “Exactly what I want. More than I deserve.”

“Shut up,” Harry hisses and there’s a growl behind it. Louis twitches. “Don’t fucking say that.”

Louis chuckles but tries to make it sound less self-deprecating. “Alright.”

He knows this won’t go away. Now that’s he’s slowly allowing himself to have this, to have Harry, he begins to understand the deep-rooted fear that had him holding back in the first place. The fear that disguises itself as a knowledge: That he hasn’t earned this happiness. But there’s no way he could ever say so aloud. Instead, he brushes the corners of Harry’s mouth, the foamy spit in them. “Was I too rough?”

Harry snorts. “Rough? Next time, I want you to keep me from coming up for air.”

“Jesus,” he says, and he’s shocked to feel another surge of heat curse through him.

“Fuck, you come so _much_ ,” Harry whines, squeezing his cock and licking their wrist where come is leaking down. “And you taste so fucking good.”

“Why didn’t you pull off, now we have to wait for this to end” Louis says and gestures to his dick, his knot smaller but still throbbing. It’s difficult to sound annoyed when there’s pleasure pulsing in his blood, though.

“I wanted it. Want it,” Harry whispers, petulantly. And then they suckle on the tip of Louis’ cock, swallowing dribbles of his come. They do that until Louis’ knot has gone down and then some more, sucking him clean. When they stand up, softened cock out in the open, they wince and stretch their back. “My knees hurt.”

Louis stares at the wet patch on their shorts. “And you want me to be rougher next time.”

“Next time will hopefully happen in a bed or with some cushions, I dunno,” Harry retorts and curls a finger into the collar of his shirt. He hugs them close, wincing when it puts pressure on his sensitive cock. Harry sways them back and forth, their chin resting on Louis’ shoulder, their breath warm. His arms fit perfectly into the dip of their waist, and he tightens them, nuzzling their jaw, pressing kisses into their dimples, licking at the thin skin of their temple.

“You okay?”, they whisper.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, thankful when Harry holds him as he starts shaking.

-*-

“Listen, I like licking your lips, now that I know what they taste like, and, don’t get me wrong, I love it so I understand why you do it all the time, but you’re going to lick them off your face if you keep doing that. And I can’t have that.”

Harry grins at him, their mouth pink and fuzzy at the edges. “I bought a new chapstick. Pomegranate.” 

Louis shakes his head to loosen his smile. “I know it is, I can smell it.”

There’s a finger on his chin, grazing the stubble. “You wanna taste?” 

It does taste like pomegranate, only slightly artificial. Must’ve been expensive. He sucks on Harry’s bottom lip and swallows their spit, devouring them. The two of them are naked, sprawled on the bed. The moon shines through the curtains, setting the night on pale fire, immersing them in light, and it makes him feel like someone understands, knows what he’s going through.

-*-

They are supposed to take the train at 5pm and Harry refuses to leave the flat until then. He unpacks his backpack and folds up every item again, he insists on airing out all the bedding, scrubbing every surface, even cleaning the stove, declining Louis’ help. When Louis tries to make breakfast, he busies himself with folding kitchen towels until Louis is loading up his plate, then he’s rushing away, mumbling something about watering flowers. There’s exactly one plant in the flat and it’s a shrivelled cactus in the hallway.

They had plans to stroll around the city again, but those seem to have been cancelled. Then again, maybe this is the opportunity for Louis to go off alone, clear his head a little and stop by some shops.

“Harry?”, he calls. “I’m gonna get some snacks for the train ride, that okay?”

“Yes, sure!” It comes back in a sing-song.

Louis ties the laces of his boots and tries to spot Harry through the open door of the bedroom. Nothing but a flash of an ankle. “You want anything specific?”

“Just something sweet. And salty. And, maybe, pickled?”

They’re just supposed to put the key in the letterbox before they leave, don’t have to see either the woman or the pirate-y man again, but Louis feels a pull towards the bar, so he finds his way back there. He doesn’t receive as many stares as when he’s with Harry and he guess it’s because his smell isn’t as vehement and his movement not as boisterous. Harry had always brought out the entertainer in him. It softened over the years, rounded at its edges, morphed into a deep-rooted knowledge rather than wild guesses into the blue. He knows Harry and he knows how to make him smile, to make him happy.

And now he’s basically got Harry’s happiness cupped in his palms, the responsibility to hold it close and protect it. He looks at them, at his hands. The lines on them, the veins under his skin, his short nails. He doesn’t know why he expects them to turn violent, violent against himself, violent against others. Against Harry. He knows he is capable of tenderness, revels in it, and yet he’s standing in the middle of a deserted street, his mind bombarding him with all the possibilities of how this could, _will_ go wrong.

He stares at the newspaper glued to the windows of the pub and wishes he wasn’t the coward he is.

The façade looks different in the midday sun. Though, the lack of neon lights will do that to a place. It looks less murder-y than abandoned. No whale noises, no yoga music, no crunching of peanuts. Just the stink of rotting wood and urine. Just when he’s about to turn away, find a bench by a tree and ponder his life choices, there’s a presence behind his back. He whirls around and gets an eye full of an unkempt beard.

Just like the pub, the beta’s appearance is less unsettling without the cloak of the night. Of course, his height makes Louis want to square his own shoulders and deepen his voice, but now that he can see the buttons on the torn leatherjacket, his heartbeat settles. “I--,” he starts, pointing behind his back. “Was just wondering if I could get – a drink.” He didn’t, he’s not, but now the door is opened, and he’s beckoned inside, so he sends a plea into the universe for him to get out safely.

The man, who had been carrying bags of groceries, ducks behind the bar and seems to load them in a fridge, judging from the square light and the sounds. Louis clutches the back of a chair and contemplates making a run for it, but before he can move so, the man grumbles: “Tea?”

“Sure, sure,” he nods forcefully. “Love me some tea.”

He’s not told to sit, nor asked to choose a flavour, so he keeps shifting from one foot to the other and checking if the way to the entrance is clear. His fingers inch to the phone to his pocket, set on sending Harry a text, but, again preventing any action, the man turns on an electric kettle and watches Louis as he sets two pints on the bar. As the water starts sizzling, Louis’ nerves begin to fray.

“Do you run this by our own?” He asks; has to ask something to draw the attention away from himself.

The beta grunts and lifts a stack of letters to get a box, takes out two tea bags. “I own five pubs. Two in Germany. One in England. One in Croatia. This one.”

“Croatia,” Louis repeats.

“Yes.”

“That’s nice.”

“It is.”

The kettle beeps and the man fills up the two pint glasses, water turning a greenish grey and smelling like a river. It’s definitely nothing he should just gulp down. Louis pats the phone in his pocket, steps around a few tables and sidles up to the counter, towards two colourless eyes that stare right into his soul, bopping the teabag up and down. Steam wafts into his nose.

“Are they gone?” The man asks, suddenly but not harshly.

Louis blinks up at him. “Who?”

“Your person. The one with you.”

He’s stunned by the use of pronouns, then he gathers himself. “Eh, no. I mean, they’re - he’s back at the flat. Waiting for me.”

The man hums. His beard is truly impressive. The braids end in tiny little pearls, the bandana around his bald head is dark with sweat, and he looks like a biker ready to drive down an American highway and fuck things up, but he sips on his tea with his pinky extended.

Louis taps his finger on the glass. Checks his fringe. Checks the door. It’s ajar, the open street behind it visible like a glance through a lens. It makes him think of Harry’s camera and the hundreds of photographs on it, the photographs of him, of them together. Photos Harry is going to put in his journal, if not pin to his wall at home, the one in the kitchen with all his knickknacks and souvenirs. That’s probably where the neon statue of David is going to end up, too, maybe next to the poem Louis wrote him on his fifteenth birthday.

In his thoughts, he absentmindedly raises the pint to his lips and takes a sip of hot, disturbingly _grainy_ water. He hopes it’s particles of the tea plants that are stuck to his throat. “Are-”

He’s interrupted, the man leaning forward on the counter, black pupils swimming in a cloudy blue. “I wanted to be a rockstar. When I was your age. I wanted to be famous.”

“And what changed?”, he asks, deciding to go along with whatever is happening. Except for taking another gulp of whatever is in that pint glass.

“Nothing. I was in a band. In three bands. We sang. And then life... life happened.”

Louis nods and uses the movement to take a step back, put distance between him and the unblinking gaze. “So, you’re telling me to, what. Seize life while it’s happening? Carpe Diem?”

The man’s laugh is booming, like gravel tumbling down a hill, but the lines on his face soften, make him appear frail. Maybe he’s older than he seems. “No, I’m telling you I wanted to be a rockstar. Nothing else. I wanted to be a rockstar and now I have five bars.”

Louis doesn’t look at the letters towering next to his elbow, doesn’t voice the advice to open and check if some eviction notices are in there. “And are you happy?”

“Happy.” There’re three rings on the man’s hand and they remind Louis of Harry’s, even if they’re a little old and rusty. “I feel happiness, yes.” He then reaches for a can of peanuts and pops it open, tipping it towards Louis. When he declines, he shrugs and throws a handful of them in his mouth, two of them ending up in his beard. “And full.” A light chuckle, and he’s patting the leather above his heart. “Here.”

And all of a sudden, Louis has become a philosopher and the words surge from his lips, the words he’s been burning to ash in his chest, the words that he couldn’t say to Harry and certainly not to himself. But here, in his pub in Rome, with someone offering him what might be laced tea, they find a place to exist. This is what he confesses: He’s afraid to be happy. Afraid it’ll be taken away. He’s afraid to pursue a future he wants. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt Harry. He’s afraid they’ll be hurt by others.

He goes on and on and on, and the man hums and nods and wipes his nose and puts on some of that whale music at one point. The tea in his pint magically disappears and Louis isn’t sure whether he drank all of it or if he maybe spilled it over the counter – that would explain why he’s feeling all damp and sticky. With a thankful smile, he accepts the wet towel he’s handed and wipes his arms and neck. “Do you think I’m overreacting?”

The beta takes the dirty towel and wrings it out over a mouldy sink, dousing it in water before slinging it over a drying rack. He’s bopping his head up and down slightly, mouth pursing behind the thick beard. “I think you should pay and go back to your Harry.” He says it just slowly enough for it to feel like a suggestion rather than a demand, but Louis is too exhausted to care anyway. The sun has somehow managed to burst through the gaps in-between the newspapers on the windows and is motionless inside the pub, carrying the scent of whatever is in that tea and permeating Louis’ clothes.

“Thanks,” he mutters, leans back to squeeze his hand inside his pocket and pulls out his wallet, putting a few coins on the counter. “For the... for the--. And listening. Hope you get all this sorted out.” He flings a loose wrist around, indicating the mess of documents, peanuts and junk. A plastic duck sits on the table he neatly avoids bumping in to. It’s like wading through mud, the whale noises urging him on. When he’s at the door, hand on the knob, he turns around. The man, the beta, the rockstar, fiddles with strands of his beard, braiding them. His pale eyes fix Louis. “You can always try again.”

He’s out on the street when he understands that he probably didn’t mean the tea.

-*-

The owner of the next hostel insists no rooms are available.

“What do you mean, you don’t have one, we booked it.” Louis has his fists on the counter, well aware it’s an assertive posture. He’s still slightly dizzy from the train ride and from what they’ve been talking about, an indentation of the backpack has etched itself into his shoulders, and Harry’s scent is making everything even worse. He is in no mood to be polite.

“It’s not free,” the woman says and lifts her chin.

There’s the sharp odour of perfume in the whole reception area, the walls soaked in it, plants in the corners of the room and the open windows doing nothing to disperse it. It adds to Louis’ irritation. “Then fucking-”

“Please, just recommend us another hostel.” Harry’s wording is as calm as ever, but there’s an edge to his voice. She doesn’t look them in the eye when she tells them there’s no hostel in this part of town for them.

“The fuck does that mean? How fucking dare you.” Louis spits, but refuses to give her the option to reply, grabs Harry and marches towards the open door, out into the street. “Fucking asshole.”

They end up at a hotel that’s definitely above their budget. As it was, two of the three hostels they found wouldn’t take them and the last one was so seedy they left on their own accord. They went from looking at crumbling plaster to shiny mirrors on the inside of an elevator. Louis stares at his own reflection, at the anger in his expression. “Do you think it’s because we’re both alphas?”

“I don’t think-... no,” Harry says, his own brows set. “They’re used to that. Maybe it’s because, well, because we smell like each other. Or because my legs are shaved. Or because I’m wearing this.”

Louis blinks as Harry tugs on the front of his pink romper. The elevator doors glide open and reveal a long hallway, painted lilac, impersonal paintings on the walls. The doors are white and broad. Louis looks at the keycard and searches for their room. “But you look lovely. And you smell – well, I like your smell.”

He drops his backpack and goes to open the door, but before he can open it, there’s a body on his. “Could pick it out among a hundred people?”

He grins down at the handle, stretches his spine and thus arches into Harry’s crotch. “Obviously. Could smell you from a mile away.”

There’s a groan in his ear and it startles him into a giggle. Before the arms sneaking around his waist can tighten, he lets them into the room and drops his backpack by a wardrobe. There’s a lot of dark wood and sleek edges, patterned tapestry, and towels shaped like swans atop the duvet. A single bed inhabits the centre of the room, red sheets shimmering in setting sunlight. The sky is visible between the curtains. Beneath the pink clouds, there’s the poles and electricity lines of the train station.

Ten minutes later, Louis gets his mouth on Harry’s cock, taking him lazily even when Harry’s fists grab the sheet and he begs and begs for more, legs spasming, teeth clenching, but so good and patient for Louis, waiting for what he gives him. His throat won’t allow him to reach the base of Harry’s dick, but he makes sure to kiss and lick it, watching Harry watch him. It's the first time he’s got another alpha’s knot under his swollen lips and he can’t stop inhaling the depth of his smell, savouring his taste on the back of his tongue, sated with the conviction that this is where he belongs – between Harry’s legs, his own emotions flooding his scent and declaring his devotion. 

-*-

Bologna consists of archways and piazzas, even more so than any other city they have been to. The sky seems broader, like a dome – or maybe it’s simply the buildings that are lower and disassembled, bronze bricks and red roofs contrasting with the bright blue. They explore, as usual, see a lot of churches and alleyways, hide in the shadows and catch dripping gelato off their wrists. The sun is punishably hot but the way it glints in the amber streaks in Harry’s hair and ignites the flush on their skin makes it bearable, even if the touches they exchange are brief.

Louis hands Harry a bottle of water, their sticky fingers brushing, and a spark flares up his arms.

Louis listens to Harry’s recitation of poetry, their morbid tone drifting higher when they stumble over a word or when they see his mocking grin, _what,_ they say indignantly, _this is the country of the sensual arts_. And Louis will tease them, _sensual arts_ , he repeats, all the while feeling Harry’s voice nestle itself deep into a crook in his chest.

Louis looks at Harry and his ribcage feels like the arch of the sky. Wide open, his heart simmering like the sun, setting him on fire from within.

They eat fresh tortellini out of plastic containers, lounging on the kerb by a building that’s painted yellow and wedged into a neighbourhood full of students; young people sitting crossed legged on the open street, music blaring from several speakers. The taste left by the kisses they shared this morning fades with every bite of ham and asparagus. But he doesn’t have to wait long for them to pull him up the stairwell of the Torre Asinelli and lick into his buttery mouth once they’re at the top, panting from the hundreds of steps.

Louis convinces them to hand over their camera for a second and let a nice old lady take a picture of them, his hand gripping their love handles. It’s intoxicating, standing so close to them after they’ve spent the last night clutching each other. He breathes them in and tastes their come, he closes his eyes and feels them fucking themselves on his belly, he notices a drop of sweat slide down their temple and sees their face twist in pleasure.

Back at the hotel, pretending the cleaners hadn’t had to see their mess, they fall back into bed. Overall, they don’t make much more plans for their trip. There’s nothing either of them particularly needs to see in Bologna, and even on their way to Verona, they simply agree to visit Romeo and Juliet’s balcony and wait for the city to surprise them.

“I really only wanna go see the balcony,” Harry says and sets their bottle of lemonade on the table separating them from Louis. The rim of it is stained pink. The glass reflects the grey of the sky and the flashes of the landscape behind the train windows. “We don’t have to stay for long. We could go back home the day after tomorrow. In the evening, maybe.”

The clouds are heavy today, something they haven’t seen in Italy since that time they got drenched in the rain in Florence. But if there’s one thing he’s familiar with, it’s a coat of grey all over the world. He wonders if they’ll catch a few days of warmth when they’re back home or if they’ll be greeted by autumn. He wonders what Harry’s skin feels like when they aren’t sun kissed or sweaty from the heat of another country.

Louis takes the bottle and a light sip. The bubbles prickle on the way down his throat, but the lemonade is the perfect balance between sweet and sour. And, where his tongue touched the rim of the bottle neck, a faint flavour of pomegranate bursts across his taste buds. “You want to go home?”

Harry stares at him for several moments before shaking their head. “I mean, no. But I thought you...you want to, maybe. But no. There’s some art works in Venice I wanna see. Also, gondolas.”

“Let me guess: naked dudes and haloes?”

“Always,” they say and reach for the bottle, mouthing over it and looking at Louis, not even realising he’s stuck on the soft give of their lips. “But after that, home. Right? No other cities you want to see... or, or spend more time in?”

“Yeah, no. We decided Venice was going to be the last, yeah?” He doesn’t ask what comes after. Doesn’t ask what happens when they’re back in the UK.

Harry nods again and finishes the lemonade, Adam's apple bobbing with it and the corners of their mouth shiny when they jam the bottle into the small bin by the window. “Good. Okay. Should book our flight, then.”

-*-

At Juliet’s villa, they can barely see through the crowd. There’s a bronze statue of Juliet, the décolleté of her dress golden from years of grabbing and posing. Harry takes a long look at it and leans into Louis but doesn’t say what’s on their mind. They’re both awkwardly quiet today, especially when they see what’s on the wings of a high metal gate: A thousand messages taped to it, some of them simple post-its, some of them pages ripped from books, some of them corners of newspapers. All of them declaring some kind of love. They don’t look at each other and hurry to get inside and into the exhibition on the Capulets, underwhelmed by the sparse décor and the amount of tourists. Juliet’s balcony is surprisingly small and soberingly bland.

Back in their room, Harry sits crossed-legged on the bed and spends an hour writing into their journal, the printed pictures of Juliet’s home in the middle of the page. Louis doesn’t try and talk to them, finds a quiet corner in the dining hall of the hostel and reads about the protagonist in his book learning lessons about good and evil. He also fucks around on his phone for a while, dumps some of his thoughts into the notes app and re-arranges them into what Harry would call a poem. He saves it as ‘ _fuck do I know_ ’.

When he goes back to Harry, they press their lips all over his face, kiss his cheeks, his eyelids, his cupid’s bow. Their hands tenderly clasp his neck, thumbs tilting his head, and Louis opens his mouth, waiting for the kisses to turn deeper, passionate and ending in one of them swallowing the other’s come. But Harry only breathes him in, a desperate little line between their brows. Louis slides his palm around their sides and up to the width of their back, pleased that Harry is warm and solid and soft as always.

-*-

In Venice, they buy a bunch of cheap figurines before realising they are, in fact, not made of glass but of plastic and only knock-offs from the real art. To make up for it, they take a day trip to Murano, visiting the glass museum, buying some more figurines Louis fears will break in their backpacks, and eating cake by the water. There was a pair of earrings Harry kept glancing at but when Louis offered to buy it, he got all skittish and shy, claiming he’d accidentally break them. Obviously, Louis bought them anyway. Now, he’s making Harry sit still, feet dangling above the canal, nose red from the sun. “Tell me if it hurts,” he says before slipping one of the earrings through the hole in Harry’s lobe. He used to do this for his sisters, but it always made him squeamish, worried he’d make them bleed, and now is no different.

Harry laughs and tilts his head. “Do the other, please.”

Louis pinches his cheek and does as told. The earrings are quite short, just a single piece dangling from a golden chain. The glass is a milky blue, shaped like a leaf, a delicate line of yellow down the middle. They make Harry’s neck look longer, highlight his jaw, and Louis rubs his thumb down his cheek, ending in the dip above his chin. “Pretty.”

Harry purses his lips in a sweet smile and his gaze drops to Louis’ mouth, so obvious about it, his eyes wide and glittering in the warm light. But he doesn’t lean forward or reach for Louis, just hums and wiggles on the edge of the pavement, shoes knocking on the wall of the canal. “I bought you something, too.”

“What,” Louis breathes, reels himself in and puts a few inches between them. “When?”

“When you kept messing with those postcards. It’s in my bag, give it to me.”

“Give it to me,” Louis repeats mockingly but hands Harry the tote bag.

Harry rolls his eyes and pulls out a small box, topped with a bow and sprinkled in glitter. Louis’ heart lurches into his throat. It’s a single pendant without a chain, a murrina with dots in hues of blue and yellow, gleaming green when he picks it up. Harry twitches. “It’s, it’s for your keychain or. Something.”

Louis grins because he doesn’t know how else to distract from the drum of his heart, scared its rapid beat is visible in the vein of his neck or the sweat on his forehead. “Or something.”

“Yeah, I dunno. You don’t wear much jewellery. But,” Harry rushes, gesticulating hectically. “The colours reminded me of – you. And if you, uhm, if you don’t like it, I can -”

Louis doesn’t bother to shut him up, detangles the bow and uses the ribbon as a makeshift bracelet, threading it through the looped wire and then around his wrist. It looks a bit chunky. Harry seems to be of the same mind: “You ruined it.”

“Well, if you had put a little more thought into this...”

“Hey,” Harry whines, kicking the heel of Louis’ shoes. “I didn’t want to... presume. That you want to put something on. Something I gave you.” The red of his nose has spread a bit, definitely not a sunburn.

“Oho,” he exclaims. “Something you gave me. Why would I ever wear something _you_ gave me?”

Harry is well into a spluttered apology when Louis laughs and places a hand the back of his head, kisses the heated skin of his ear. “Darling, I was joking. What do you think these are, hmm?”

He doesn’t allow them to fall into a proper kiss but gives them a few seconds of haggard breathing and half-lidded eyes before making sure to pull his hand away in a manner that makes his new bracelet drag over Harry’s neck. He keeps touching him like that for the rest of the day: On the ferry back to the main island with his palm on his hip, through disintegrating alleys with their wrists brushing, on raucous bridges with a stabilising hand on his arm. After two hours of constant caresses, Louis notices Harry is talking even slower than usual, drifting into Louis’ space, absentmindedly fingering the leaves of his earrings.

For dinner, after they have searched for an affordable restaurant, they order wine. It turns Louis’ limbs to putty and Harry’s lips pink, slack and open. The tang of a red is no substitute for his natural taste, but his mouth is hot and bitter-sweet, like grapes, like pomegranate, when Louis kisses him in the hallway of the hostel, giggling as they stagger towards their room, getting distracted at every corner. They wank each other off, blissful, sinking into the bed once their knees give out. Louis licks over Harry’s neck and kisses the earrings, careful not to scratch them with his teeth and Harry pants and writhes, fucking up into his hand, his own fingers shaky beneath the bracelet on Louis’ arm, almost coating it in come.

It’s a pretty good day, a succession of events they repeat in little variation for the rest of their stay. Before the sun can inflame the pavement and turn the city into a greenhouse, they get out into the streets and keep walking until they can’t, or find a museum, palazzo or courtyard to explore. Louis kisses statues for Harry’s artistic vision and photographs, Harry comes up with dick puns for Louis’ high standards, they eat pasta with fresh seafoods and drink too many aperitifs. On their third day, they take a boat to the beach on the mainland and Harry gets a burn on their forehead because they insist they’re tan enough to withstand the sun. Louis gets to kiss it better when they’re back in bed.

In the Gallerie dell’Academia di Venezia, Louis finds Harry in front of a painting of Jesus sitting on some kind of throne. He’s got an oblate in one hand and offers it to a kneeling nun; the other hand parts the wound on his chest – the wound that’s placed unusually high. Harry has his own hands tucked under his armpits, shoulders raised to his jawline. The shirt he’s wearing is probably vintage, and apart from vague shapes that could have been faces, it says QUEEN right beneath the collar. It’s very likely he’s wearing it for the statement. “There’s an academic text on this. Well. Sorta academic,” Harry murmurs, when Louis bumps his hip. “There’s quite the drama around it.”

“Oi oi,” Louis says, poking him in the hip. “Spill it.”

Harry outlines the feud between two art historians and their different perceptions of what counts as a queer depiction of Jesus, both of them absolutely bonkers in their arguments. “Basically, Bynum says it’s queer because of the wound that’s also a nipple that’s also a vagina. And because he hands over the oblate, like. Nourishing.”

“That’s a bit fucked,” Louis says and pulls a face. “What’s queer about nourishing someone?”

“Cishets can’t nourish,” Harry says with a deadpan, scratching his chest.

Louis does his best not to burst into giggles, traps his lips between his teeth and hums. “You’re right, you’re right. So, this Jesus is queer. And bleeding from his nipple?”

“You wouldn’t believe the images you can find in medieval illustrations. Loads of comparisons to vulvas. But there’s also people who, uhm, don’t look at it through a lens of gender and more...” The fingers by his chest trail towards one of the nipples poking through his shirt and Louis isn’t sure whether it’s entirely intentional. “Bdsm like. Sexual.”

Theoretically, Louis knows people have all kinds of sexual fantasies. There’s a lot of naked Jesuses around them, some of them impressively ripped. He’s not exactly shocked but suddenly Harry’s talking about pain and pleasure and diary entries of nuns that end in orgasms and the absolution of suffering, and Louis’ not religious, but he thinks of Christmas and zoning out in church and feels a responsibility to stop Harry before he’s talking himself into a frenzy. He cups his palm around the swell of Harry’s love handle. “Love, I support you in all your passions but please don’t get horny in front of Jesus, I couldn’t look my nan in the eyes if we fucked in the bathrooms right now.”

Harry stutters. “I - I’m not! It’s just – it’s cool stuff!”

Louis raises a brow and leans forward in a flash, sniffing at Harry’s neck. “I can smell you, Pup.”

There’s a visible shiver going through Harry’s body, his head tilting to the side before he seems to catch himself and straightens up. He leans into Louis’ hand on his hips and stops wistfully gazing at the painting to blink at him, lashes heavy, the bags under his eyes a shimmery pink. “’m just. It’s not about the sex stuff. I mean, that’s a nice bonus and I love talking about it. But for me, uhm, it’s. It’s that I get to inscribe myself into a history this – violent, yes, but also. Widely known and cherished.”

A spiked vice tightens in Louis’ guts. His touch travels towards Harry’s tummy, warm through a thin layer of cotton, and he rests his forehead on the jut of Harry’s shoulder. He’s aware of the attention from the other museum visitors, his toes digging into the soles of his shoes to keep himself from running away, but he can feel the rise and fall of Harry’s ribcage against his own, their breathing synching up. “Darling,” he sighs pensively. But he doesn’t know how to formulate the thoughts and worries about Harry identifying with someone who had to suffer to be loved - how to confess that he doesn’t _not_ understand it, the desire to see himself in someone renowned as pure and good and loveable.

They don’t end up fucking in the bathroom and they don’t talk about Jesus anymore but in the museum’s shop, they buy several postcards and a puzzle of some saint tied to a tree. Afterwards they change into comfortable clothes and sit in the lobby of the hostel, Harry writing into his journal and Louis writing to his siblings. It’s a little late, but he figures now is better than never. He steals some of Harry’s washi tape and glitter pencils and adorns the postcards with some wonky hearts. Someone at the reception promises to hand them over to the postman. With nothing to do and Harry hunched over his journal, printing out photographs with his fancy little printer, he starts the second to last chapter of his book.

Half an hour later, two people with accents Louis places somewhere in South America approach them. They introduce themselves as Jaci and Nicolau and explain they’re in Venice for a conference, skirting around the topic until they see Harry’s pronoun bracelet. It cues a goodhearted discussion about art performances involving food that Louis quickly disengages with, but Jaci and Harry seem to hit it off, talking about milk and pubes and honey. Nicolau and Louis exchange a look, a smile. He’s not exactly sure what he just smiled about but it’s nice, nonetheless.

The two take Louis and Harry to a truck selling all kinds of fried food – mozzarella, rice, chicken, mashed potatoes – and when they each get a cone with a mix of all things, they sit down by the Canale della Guidecca. The sun is starting to sink, flushing the clouds behind the Basilica di San Marco a shy pink and giving the murky water a green tint. The Alilaguna, the water taxis, have stopped docking periodically, and now there are a pre-eminently private boats and yachts pelting across the current. They cause massive waves, white foam bubbling up and ripples crashing against the concrete of the piers. Sporadically, a reverberating blare will carry across the water.

Louis’ knee is lined up with Harry’s thigh, a warm spot on his otherwise chilly body. The air is so salty here, it sticks to the grease on his lips and makes his eyes sting the sleepier her gets, until he’s fully leaning against Harry’s side, scrounging on their warmth. The conversation has taken many turns and flips and reverses and he has stopped keeping track a while ago, content to listen to the familiar coils and pitches of Harry’s rambling.

“We were on a train...” Harry begins and tells the story of them running across train tracks in an entirely too jumbled and boring manner, turning the minute they thought they had between jumps into thirty seconds, doubling the amount of time they had to wait after. Somewhere along the uhms and pauses and sniffs, their arm draws Louis closer and simply doesn’t leave his waist. It makes it easier to ignore the pebbles digging into Louis’ legs, to suppress the occasional shiver and refrain from longing for a jumper.

He’s deadweight when everyone decides to go to sleep and hangs onto Harry for support as they walk up the stairs and down the corridors to their room. He complains until Harry helps him undress, then spreads his arms as long as it takes for Harry to change into their silk shorts and join him on the bed, cuddling close. He pets their back and nuzzles their neck, tilt his head to the side when Harry scents them in return. They kiss drowsily, unhurried little nips and prods.

-*-

Louis almost keels over into a canal when he hears the price of a forty-minute Gondola ride. The gondolier, in a striped top, red kerchief and straw hat, shrugs rather resigned. He doesn’t seem cross when they crack embarrassed grins and promise to come back later, assuring each other that that’s _not_ going to happen as soon as they’re out of earshot. Harry is grumpy about it, all quiet and brooding while they meander through the labyrinth of bridges and narrow passages, accepts Louis’ teasing jokes and prodding hands with a faked smile. They seem to forget about their grudge when they find a shop selling clocks mirroring the one in that one surrealist painting – or maybe dadaist? Abstract? Is there a difference? Louis isn’t sure, and Harry doesn’t seem inclined to explain. Especially not, when they see the price tags.

“Love,” Louis tries on the boat to the station near their hostel. “What’d you want to do for our last night?”

The wind is surging through their hair, whipping Harry’s curls into their frown. They don’t swipe them out of their eyes. “I dunno.”

“Maybe go see some play? There’s probably old and spooky theatres around here, yeah?” He knows Harry is into those kinds of places, those atmospheres, those plush velvet chairs and golden ornaments. There’s no reason for Harry to huff and cross their arms, lean against the rail with a curved back and a ticking muscle in their jaw.

Their words are drowned by the motor of a boat. “Not really.”

“Right. Okay, then. Maybe we’ll find Jaci and Nicolau, get-”

“Don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“... Alright.” Louis braces himself for an evening of silence until some small detail will set Harry off and hurl them into an emotional tirade. He tries not to get angry about their last day being ruined just because they can’t afford a cheesy tourist attraction, but it’s difficult not to feel disappointed when all he wants to do is enjoy the sun and unrestraint of the city. Last night he had dreams about rope rising from the air and yanking at his ankles, pulling him into a void. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out that meaning. Thus, he follows Harry away from the water taxi and along the pier towards their hostel, not bothering to catch up, glaring at their glistening neck.

However, that small detail which prompts Harry to groan loudly and turn around emerges earlier than expected: In the shape of a locket attached to a bridge they need to cross. “Listen,” Harry spits, hand gripping the elegant balustrade, drawing Louis’ attention to the heart-shaped metal. “I’m not an idiot.”

Louis can’t bite back a small snort. It earns him a scowl. He apologises with a smile and gestures for Harry to continue. “I don’t care about the gondola.”

He makes another sound.

“I don’t.” Harry pinches the crease between their brows. “I’m just. You know how I get when things don’t go according to plan...”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Louis says, wishing he could smell what Harry’s feeling. Involuntarily, his feet bring him closer to the rigid bend of Harry’s back.

“And it’s, like. It’s even worse when there’s no plan at all.” Their hand obstructs the pattern of their expressions, the pendant of their bracelet swinging back and forth in front of their nose. Louis fiddles with his own bracelet, rubs the disc between his fingers. It’s cool despite the heat.

He sucks on his tongue. “I suggested several alternatives to you. We could-”

“I’m not -… I’m not talking about... that.”

Louis figured. “Please, just say it instead of beating around the bush, yeah?”  
He’s not actually expecting Harry to demand for them to stop whatever they have been doing for the past weeks, for them to go back to being friends and only friends when they’re home, but the possibility still settles inside his chest like a barbed wire, about to tighten to protect his heart before Harry can hurt him.

Harry nods, finally revealing their face. Both their hands come to rest on the balustrade, caging in the locket. They take a step forth and a step back, their neck going limp as they stare into the water. Three kids, chewing on gum they swap back and worth, waltz by, ogling them with big brown eyes and goo stuck in their fringes. They point at Harry’s flowy blouse, squealing. Louis gives them a stern look and they take off running, gum plopping out their mouths and splotching onto the footpath. Harry, usually one to let kids play with their curls or make silly faces at them, breathes out heavily. “I guess. I guess I’m wondering about... after. Like. The flight.”

“Well, Li will hopefully come collect us from the airport, that’s what she promised, eh?”

His sarcasm is not appreciated. Harry’s frown remains etched into their face. “After that.”

Louis puts his palm between their protruding scapulae, grinding the heel of his palms into their tensed muscles. “After that, we’ll sleep for a whole day and call our sisters and, I don’t know, eat pudding or drink some earl grey, like, go back to the bland cuisine of our home country. And when we both had some time to think, I’ll come over and we’ll, well, you will cook. And then we’ll talk.” He inhales slowly. “How’s that plan for you, Darling?”

Harry swirls around abruptly, only avoiding hitting Louis because their fingers catch themselves in the bottom of his shirt, twisting the fabric. Their eyes burn with something Louis recognises as want, overt and openly aflame, sparking an answering fire in the pit of his belly. They lick their lips, gaze dropping to Louis’ mouth that starts tingling as soon as he notices their pupils widening. “Yes,” they whisper. “Yeah, that’s a good plan. I like that plan.”

“Good,” Louis says and curls a possessive hand around their neck. “Now, let’s go up to our room and fuck and maybe go out after.”

They very nearly kiss right there, for everyone to see. Harry sways into him, pauses and then grips the bend of his elbow, dragging him away from the bridge and towards the hostel. They’re subjected to several confused mutters when they breeze through the lobby, but as soon as the door closes behind them there’s only the sounds of the harbour and the clink of Louis’ belt as it hits the floor. Harry’s blouse glides through his fingers as he unwraps it from their shoulders, their necklace catching in the spaces between them as he roams his hand all over their chest. “So fucking beautiful,” he groans and pushes them onto the bed, getting his mouth all over their torso, sucking at all the tender spots he’s discovered so far.

Harry pulls him in by the back of his head, pressing him to their nipples, moaning prettily when he bites and licks them. He spends ages just alternating between dragging his lips over their pecs and scratching them up with the blunt of his nails, kissing the cross of their necklace, trapping their waist between his thighs, rocking his bum into the hard shape of their cock. He’s imagining his next steps, when Harry grips his hips and yanks him up, nuzzling their face into the crotch of his boxers. “Gonna get you in my mouth,” they moan, and they do.

Louis holds onto the headboard and keeps his trembling muscles from snapping, driving into the wet heat of Harry’s throat. His fingers lay uselessly on the cut of Harry’s cheekbones, close to where their eyes are blissfully shut and their lashes are sticking together. His bracelet, the mess of a ribbon and the twinkling pendant, gets entangled with their curls. The fire in Louis’ abdomen surges higher and higher, licking across his skin, burning at his neck. It’s over fast and he makes sure not to let Harry get too close to the base of his dick, lest he pops a knot. He comes all over their face, their tongue swirling over the sensitive vein on the underside of his cock. He doesn’t allow himself to linger, kisses them with shaky breaths and slack lips, aligning their fronts.

The longer he spends kissing them, the more relaxed they get, their desperate whines morphing into pleased little whimpers, no longer digging their nails into his flesh. When he slides down, folding himself over to trace the bows atop their panties, their hands glide beneath the pillow behind their head and their legs spread, inviting Louis to come closer. Eating Harry out for the first time is as much of a revelation as figuring out he’s half way in love with them: While it’s intoxicating, a fizzle in his blood, an expanding of his lungs, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. It’s almost easy, making Harry feel good, like he knows exactly where to prod, where to lick, how to crook his finger when he slides the tip of it into Harry’s spit soaked, fluttering hole. He understands they need a hand around their cock before Harry’s asking for it, can read it in their hitching cries and curving spine.

“Please,” they mouth as he tugs them off, rougher and faster than he would himself. “Make me come, let me come, please-”

“Of course, Pup, you can come any time you want, gonna make you come again, whenever you want me to,” he keeps saying the same things over and over, breathing them onto the stretched rim around his finger, licking them into their skin, kissing them into the trimmed edges of their pubes. “Look at you, Baby. Got you all wet, so wet for me.”

When Harry comes, it’s with their eyes watering, and their hole throbbing around Louis’ tongue. “My - my alpha,” they sigh, a tentative hand reaching down to card through his hair.

“Yeah, Baby, yours,” he says, carefully slipping out and thumbing over their softening cock. He kneels on the mattress, inhales deeply and looks at Harry smiling at him, their belly sprinkled in white. He takes their small nod as an invitation to lick it up, smear his own saliva into their heated skin.

When it’s dark and they got off three more times, Harry is dabbing some sort of cream all over their face and blinking slowly at the smudged mirror in the bathroom. Louis watches them from where he is leaning against the headrest, his thumb pressed to the home button on his phone, but the screen dark. The both of them are naked from the waist up, their pyjama bottoms lazily thrown on after their joined shower. His skin feels tight and weirdly sensitive from the lotion he let Harry apply all over his body, but his palms are warm and silky from returning the favour. He’s drifting in and out of a drowse, only staying up because he wants Harry to spoon him to sleep. “Are you going back to uni on Monday?”

“Tuesday. Wanted to have one more day to adjust. What about you?” Harry asks and Louis tracks the journey of their fingers from the bridge of their nose to the plane of their cheek.

He huffs. “Have to be in for work at nine. They were already pissed enough when I told them I’d be gone for four weeks.”

“But like... didn’t you tell me they can’t actually make you come in. Since you’re barely being paid, and. Uh...”

“Because they like to exploit me?” Louis shrugs, smiling tight lipped. “I’m still hoping for that NGO to get back to me. Remember? The one with the campaign on post-truth politics.”

It’s actually quite exciting to have something to hope for. He doesn’t want to leave Italy, doesn’t want to miss the sun or the arancini or the first three seconds in the morning waking up next to Harry and realising he can just pull them into his arms. But he’s got a plastic bag full of Italian sweets and a ribbon messily tied around his wrist, showcasing the murrina pendant shimmering green in the light. And Harry’s got matching earrings dangling from his sunburnt ears.

He was so fast to hop on a plane to follow Harry into a different country because it meant he got to flee from his daily routine for a little while – well, that and because he would jump through hoops to stay by Harry’s side. And run across train tracks. And walk into sketchy pubs. And endure the elitism of the art industry.

“That’d be nice. Maybe they can help you publish some of your texts.” Harry tilts and turns their head and wipes at a spot above their brow. Their face is glowing with the oils in the cream and the blue light of the overhead lamp, the hue of their skin weirdly green-ish. However, as soon as they throw one last glance into the mirror, apply their chapstick and step back into the bedroom, they’re as golden as ever.

For a second, Louis thinks Harry is going to sink into his lap and spreads his legs accordingly, but they stop at the edge of the bed and sway back and forth. “You should also publish your poetry, you know?”

Louis laughs, tired and delirious, and tries to pull them in by their wrists. “Will you shut up about my poems?”

Harry wobbles closer, crawling onto the mattress and into the v of Louis’ thighs. They comb through Louis’ fringe and suck their lip between their teeth, releasing it slowly. They smell like aloe vera and sweetness and Louis. “One day, I’ll own a collection of them and I’ll read from it every day.”

“You seem awfully sure about the future,” he slides his hands up their arms once they’re perched on his crotch, rubbing along the chain of their necklace. Before he can bring it up to his lips to kiss it, Harry catches his left hand and follows the lines in his palms.

“A good future, good health,” they rock their bum over his cock that, despite being sensitive and tender, throbs. “And a good sex life.”

Louis had four weeks, two decades to make this decision and he accepts it in the span of a second. He smiles, doesn’t try to hide it. “And you on my lap.”

Harry’s lips stretch wide, pink mouth sore in the corners, dimples framing their grin. It tastes like pomegranate.

-*-

They miscalculate the amount of time it takes them to get to the airport and through security and when they’ve checked in and gotten rid of their backpacks, they’ve got an hour and a half left at the gate. Harry’s dramatic about it but Louis would rather look at men in suits, mannequins in lingerie and perpetually smiling staff for ninety minutes than rush through a strange maze of giant hangars and duty-free shops. They bought lunch and it’s weirdly comforting to eat greasy fast food, the familiar McDonald’s logo like a gateway to home. Harry refused to buy meat he calls minced immorality, but Louis noticed the grey-ish tint in the salmon on his sushi and wonders if he’ll have to feed him soup and crackers for the next days, hold his hair back, exchange his sweaty sheets. He catches himself in an elaborate fantasy before he admits to himself that he’s wishing food poisoning upon Harry in order to stay as close as they’ve been for the past month.

Harry, dressed in maroon corduroy trousers, ruffles his own curls. “It’s weird how four weeks have gone by.”

“Feels exactly like a month to me.” He slides his ankle down Harry’s calf. He’s hot in his track suit but he also knows the air condition on the plane will be chilly, always an uncomfortable draught slipping through gaps in his clothing. And the weather app proclaims light drizzles, because of course London will welcome them back with rain.

"Time passes differently when you’re not home.” 

Thankfully, Louis has had two decades to understand the layers of Harry’s statements. “Well, we have a lot of it, either way. Could go to the V&A and stare at some more holy dicks. Or, you know. Go home and stare at each other’s dicks.”

Louis watches the glint in Harry’s eyes get more intense, body leaning forward, his gesticulations broad, and he nods along to whatever he’s saying – something about artists in London’s museums - and reaches over the gap between their seats, intertwining their hands. They’re both sweaty and the angle is a little awkward with the armrests between them, but their wrists line up and he can feel the faint pulse of Harry’s heartbeat next to his own. Louis’ heart is throwing itself against his ribs, threatening to break them. Harry looks down, stumbles in his speech, and then pretends like nothing’s changed, lips pursing around his smile. His face is glowing with a blush and the sun streaming through the windowpanes.

-*-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd appreciate kudos and comments.  
> 
> 
> Real art works mentioned:  
> Unknown artist, Sleeping Hermaphrodite, 2nd century B.C., Uffizi Gallery, Florence.  
> Quirizio da Murano, The Savior, 1460-78, Accademia, Venice.
> 
> If you want to read up on gay and horny depictions of Christ, here's a list of texts:  
> Bynum: Body of Christ  
> Camille: For our Devotion and Pleasure  
> Mills: Suspended Animation. Pain, Pleasure and Punishment in Medieval Culture  
> Mills: Hanging with Christ  
> Steinberg: The Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion  
> Steinberg: Ad Bynum
> 
> And here's a post I made on tumblr about queer Christ: https://happy-princess.tumblr.com/post/189371230585/i-read-your-new-aa-fic-last-night-and-it-put-me
> 
> Love ya xx


End file.
